


Kings Of Coney Island

by Vespasiana



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Gift Fic, M/M, Mafia AU, Marriage of Convenience, Mild Gore, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, Porn With Plot, Serious Injuries, Terminal Illnesses, Torture, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:59:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vespasiana/pseuds/Vespasiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Steve is a rising mafia don lacking in panache, Tony is an unethical businessman with a target on his back, and somehow a fake marriage will solve all their problems.</p><p>Also murder. Murder solves a lot of problems, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Every Inch of My Tar-Black Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [machinate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/machinate/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by and written for [Marr](http://www.ironfries.tumblr.com), whose birthday it is today, and is pretty much just gratuitous fulfillment of both our favorite kinks and tropes. 
> 
> For those of you looking for romance, heroism, and best friends, I suggest going elsewhere. This fic will be about messed up people doing bad things for ambiguous reasons. The only morality here is contextual morality, and while there's a happy ending in the works, it'll be a long time coming. 
> 
> Until then, though, please enjoy what I had originally titled "Gratuitous Angry-Porn At Least Once Per Chapter With Some Plot And Probably A Lot Of Brutal Murder", but is now named entirely in references to Lana Del Rey's _Off To The Races_.
> 
> Edit: Now with [fanart](http://ironfries.tumblr.com/post/52165431497/and-wasnt-that-the-most-terrifying-feeling-in)! Marr is da best.

Mid-September, and the night was dry and cold. Freezing, actually, but that had the happy benefit of numbing Tony’s split lip, slowing the steady drip of blood to a sluggish ooze. The deep bruising on his arms and ribs wasn’t so serendipitously affected, but it was pain he could ignore. The tight knot in his stomach - panic; betrayal; cold, dead fear - was a much bigger problem.

Tony sauntered confidently as he could up to the main entrance of a tastefully upper-class apartment building. It tried to blend into the neighborhood’s run-down background, but no amount of somber brickwork or plain wrought-iron filigree could hide the fact that the building was practically dripping with ill-begotten money, a nexus of power and wealth just outside of the law. The tell-tale sidearm bulges under the doorman’s uniform were additional, more obvious clues. Tony flashed the guard a winning, somewhat blood-stained smile and waltzed over to the resident call-box. He wasn’t bothered - it wasn’t the first time a place like this had seen a beat-to-hell socialite, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

He pushed the button next to the “Rogers, S.” nameplate and waited. The doorman continued to glower, and Tony continued to radiate charm and good-will right back at him.

Faint static and a sleep-rough voice diverted Tony’s attention back to the intercom. “Rogers. Who is this and whaddya want?”

“Rogers, darling!” Tony forced as much carefree delight into his voice as he could, though it ended up sounding quite a bit more like panic. “It’s Stark- Tony Stark, of course, because we both know dear Gregory would never deign to consort with, ah, independent entrepreneurs like yourself. I’m in a spot of trouble and was wondering if you might find it in your heart to hear me out?” Was he babbling? He was babbling.

The intercom stayed quiet for a long moment, which didn’t do much for Tony’s mood. When Rogers did finally respond, he sounded much more awake but not much happier. “Not something you can talk about in public, then?”

“Not as such, no.”

A deep sigh, like the concession was physically painful. “Fine, I’m on floor 26. This had better be good.” The intercom cut off.

Tony was well aware that Rogers was being as polite as he could manage, but the terse invitation - and extremely thorough pat-down from the doorman - didn’t exactly help endear him. 

The interior of the elevator was all mirrored panels, and Tony took the opportunity to straighten himself up. He’d started the day dressed impeccably as ever - designer suit, silk tie, loafers polished to a shine - but it turned out getting assaulted by hired thugs and chased out of ones own home on threat of death resulted in some wear and tear. He’d lost his jacket in the scuffle, which had made the hike over uncomfortable, and the defensive bruising on his forearms was starting to turn purple, but the swollen split lip was thankfully the only place they’d drawn blood. 

Even after he pulled his sleeves down, it was more weakness than he felt comfortable showing in front of someone like Captain Steve Rogers, but he didn’t have much choice. Maybe Rogers would take pity on him if he looked like something the cat dragged in out of the cold. Or maybe Rogers would take one look at him and kick him back to the curb - Rogers did love his charity cases, but Tony wasn’t exactly an underprivileged inner city kid.

The elevator dinged quietly and slid open, revealing a minimalistic entrance foyer done in soft woods and warm colors. Classic Rogers, no taste for modernity- but now wasn’t the time to critique interior design. Tony knocked on the front door of the penthouse, which opened almost as soon as he touched it.

“Stark.”

“Cap’n.”

Rogers did not look especially happy- but then, he rarely did. The handsome lines of his face and jaw seemed permanently set in a scowl, and his faintly crooked nose gave him a thuggish air. A pity, Tony considered, because the man had some seriously impressive physique, which was fortuitously on display. Apparently meeting Tony rated pants and double chest holsters, but not a shirt, which was fine by him.

“So what’s your problem?” Rogers took in the black eye, the split lip, the way Tony curled ever so slightly around his ribs, with a soldier’s keen appraisal. “Sleep with someone’s wife again?”

Tony resisted the urge to roll his eyes; Rogers’ distaste for his playboy lifestyle was well-known, which was part of the reason he’d come to him for help. No one would ever expect a respectable up-and-coming mafioso like Steve Rogers to spare a second thought for some rich, eccentric debutante like Tony Stark. “Please, I’m much more discreet than that.”

He waited for a retort, some of their semi-normal banter, but Rogers just stayed irritable and silent, possibly because it was 3 in the morning but also possibly because Rogers had no joy in his soul. Fine, he wanted to cut to the chase? Tony could do that.

“We should get married."

Tony quickly shoved his foot and most of his body in the door jam as Rogers attempted to slam it in his face. “Come now, just hear me out!”

Rogers just glared harder. “There is no situation in which marrying you would be a good idea, and I don’t have time for your jokes.”

“Greg’s started a take-over and ousted me. He tried to have me killed.” Tony swallowed as much of his pride as he could. “You’re the only person I know with the resources to keep him off me who isn’t also in his pocket. I need your help.”

For a long moment, Rogers just started, eyes narrowed and calculating. Tony, heart in his throat, tried his best to keep a look of total sincerity up, which wasn’t hard considering he was, in fact, totally sincere. Finally, Rogers backed away and opened the door, which allowed Tony to stumble into the penthouse.

“I’m listening,” Rogers continued as soon as the door was closed.

“Like I said, Greg- he’s pulling a full take-over of the company, all our holdings, all _my_ holdings.” For once, Tony didn’t try to hide how the relief at not being thrown back out onto the street made his voice shake, and followed Rogers further into the penthouse. “He’s got the board in his pocket, moved my patents to his name, forged documents, paid off witnesses, hired thugs - the whole nine yards. He’s trying to frame me for corporate sabotage or something, trying to get me incarcerated or blacklisted- I don’t fucking know but it’s _my_ company.” Tony ran his fingers through his hair, tried to pull his voice back down from the angered pitch it had risen to.

Rogers’ voice remained impassive and skeptical, but his expression softened faintly even as he leaned back against the marble countertop. “So you need what, guns? Money? Bodyguards?”

“I need someone I can trust.” 

Silence settled over them, heavy, and Tony wondered if he made a tactical error, being so meticulously honest with Rogers right out of the gate. The good Captain was a not the kind of man who responded to desperation with unconditional aid, after all- or at least, not right away. He needed a reason. People always did.

Rogers’ eyes were remarkably blue, cold and calculating and earnest all at once as he stared Tony down. When he finally spoke again, Tony felt as though some small weight on his chest had lifted, like a held-in breath being released.

“Why the marriage proposal?” Rogers asked, wary but willing to play along.

Breathe in, breathe out, stay in control. “Because Greg’s my only family and we’ve not always liked each other, but I didn’t think he was a murdering snake until about 2 hours ago, so he’s still in my will.” Tony eyed up the decanters of whiskey over the bar behind Rogers, but maneuvering casually around his bulk would be too difficult to bother with. God, he needed a drink, just one or two to still his shaking hands. “If he does manage to kill me, he’ll get everything. I’m not going to let that happen, not even over my dead body.”

Rogers crossed his arms, which had the dual effect of showing off his massive biceps and making the WWII-era pin up on his sleeve tattoo ripple enticingly. It was possible that Tony had had secondary motives when he’d picked Rogers for his plan. “And marrying someone will block Greg’s easiest path to your half of the company.” The contemplative note in his voice sounded almost approving, and Tony latched onto the advantage.

“Right, he’ll have to go aboveground to get rid of me, use, well, not actual tactics, but methods other than brute force, things I can actually counter. He’ll have to fight on my turf, and I’ll tear him apart,” Tony growled reasonably.

“This’s a pretty complicated revenge plan for something that could be fixed by changing your will,” Rogers remarked, settling onto one of the bar stools, legs spread imperiously to either side. He relaxed slightly, like a large predator amused by the antics of his potential prey. It was a terrifyingly attractive tableau. “Unless Greg has that, too.”

Tony tried not to scowl too forcefully - his lip had only just healed over. “Don’t be an ass; Greg’s my brother, but I’m not an idiot. It’s out of his reach,” he paused, and conceded, “But there’s no way I can get to it and change it without forcing his hand, and knowing my luck he’ll find some way to get the changes thrown out when he _does_ kill me, so it won’t even fucking matter.”

For a brief and promising second, Rogers’ hard, calculating gaze softened sympathetically, and though the walls went back up almost immediately, it was enough - Tony could tell he’d won, because he’d found Rogers’ soft spot. For all his finely leashed barbarism, Steve Rogers wore as much of his heart on his sleeve has he could afford, and he was morally incapable of abandoning someone who’d ever wronged him, even if he did always search for a practical justification. It was a weakness, and Tony was glad to see it. Everyone had a weakness, after all, a poorly hidden and poorly healed wound, and one of Tony’s many sorts of genius lay in finding that spot and never hesitating to dig in, to keep pushing until it hurt. 

“So you marry me for the resources and protection you need to clean house, and in return I get- what, exactly?” At odds with his hard-edged tone of voice, Rogers unfolded his arms and started drumming his fingers on a nearby table. Nervous habit? Sign of imminent violence? “You’re asking for a lot from me, Stark, and I still can’t see what I’m supposed to get out this scheme - we’re not even friends.”

“You wound me, darling,” Tony replied dryly, eyeing up the whiskey - and Rogers - yet again. He licked his lips at one or both. “Also, you insult my intelligence and my talents, which is something I’m not about to stand for. I mean, you do realize I’m the most brilliant mechanical engineer in the world, right? That every branch of the US military fights for the right to suck my cock?” He stalked closer to Rogers, drawing up as tall as he could despite the pain in his ribs, and slid easily into the mask his investors were used to, slick and charming and rightly arrogant, like the world had a price and ‘budget’ was a dirty word. “Give me twenty minutes with those sidearms of yours, and I’ll rebuild them 30% more efficient. Give me an hour with the contents of your kitchen and I’ll build you a fuckin’ satellite. Give me a week and a few million and I’ll have untraceable, custom-made, fully automatic weapons for every thug on your payroll.”

He jabbed Rogers in the center of his broad chest, just below the point of a delicate golden crucifix. “Greg took my company, but he can’t take away the fact that I’m the kind of genius you see once a millennium, that I can revolutionize the world before breakfast, that I’m Tony _fucking_ Stark. I pay my debts - you help me now, Rogers, and I’ll make us both gods.”

And just to sell it further, Tony batted his eyes a bit, smirk turning dirty. “Plus, I’m fantastic in bed.”

Rogers’ expression, previously neutral and considering, pinched suspiciously when Tony upped the charm, like the idea of a roll in the sack somehow soured the deal. Which was ridiculous - Tony was so good he could get letters of recommendation - plural! - from past fucks.

Tony was cut off from making just such an observation by Rogers drawing up to his full height, pressing a broad hand against Tony’s chest, and shoving him firmly against the wall. Irritated, Tony tried to shove him off, but Rogers held him down with all the apparent effort of a bear pinning some unlucky rabbit.

“Prove it,” Rogers smirked, and Tony was forced to recall that he was trying to ally himself with one of the most ruthless men in the city. It had been a miscalculation to expect Rogers to just say yes without a downpayment.

For a brief moment, Tony went perfectly still, heart rate picking up. Surely Rogers could feel that, feel the flash of anticipatory fear that shot down his spine like a gunshot, but his patient, challenging smirk never changed. Why would it? He had Tony right where he wanted him, pinned and trapped and with no option left but to submit. The very idea left a foul taste in Tony’s mouth, and he resisted his natural urge to sneer only by reminding himself that Rogers wasn’t wrong - if Tony didn’t concede now, he’d be easy prey for Greg or anyone else who wanted a shot at him, only so much blood in the water.

Or maybe Rogers was issuing a challenge, because he liked to see Tony squirm, because he wanted to test his resolve, because he wanted Tony to understand just what he was getting into. Maybe this was Rogers setting his terms, demanding a downpayment for a serious investment on his part. 

Maybe Rogers just wanted to fuck, though if that was the case he really ought to have said something sooner. 

Finally, Tony grabbed tight to the shoulder straps of Rogers’ holsters - Steve’s holsters; he ought to start calling him Steve, it was just polite - and smiled, sharp and bright like a knife, a perfect match to Steve’s arrogantly expectant expression. “I thought you’d never ask, darling.” 

The kiss he dragged Steve into wasn’t nice or gentle, but it was hot and bruising and desperate, which was good enough for Tony. Steve hesitated only a second before responding and taking control, sliding his hand up Tony’s chest and neck to grab his jaw and force his mouth open, which Tony would have taken offense to if it was so goddamn hot - the idea of Steve prying him open, taking what he wanted, and leaving Tony a shaking wreck sent shivers of arousal sparking through his limbs. 

He moaned into Steve’s mouth, thick and a little surprised at just how quickly a kiss could scramble his brains, but the faint rumble of a smug chuckle against his mouth helped him refocus. Steve hadn’t yet earned the right to be that satisfied, no matter how good he was. Tony released his grip on the holsters, confident that Steve would keep them plastered together, and started running his fingers, calloused and perfectly manicured, across Steve’s chest, mapping out the jagged scars and puckered bullet wounds that were as much a badge of his profession as were Tony’s bespoke suits. He flicked his fingertips across Steve’s nipples, then pinched, which got a pleased grunt out of him that Tony was eager to hear again. 

Tony dragged his nails down the flat planes of Steve’s stomach, grabbing onto the hem of his pants for purchase as Steve continued to plunder his mouth. When they finally broke for air, Tony couldn’t hide the way he had to pant through his bruised and swollen lips, though Steve’s eyes were satisfyingly dark, pupils blown so wide only the thinnest ring of blue remained around the edge. Tony licked his lips, noting the way Steve followed the motion, and smirked, shaky but challenging. “Mmm, not bad for a start, but how’s your follow-through?"

Steve nearly smiled, eyes dancing with the first hint of genuine amusement he’d seen all night. “Good enough for you,” he teased back, and then tore Tony’s shirt off. Buttons flew everywhere, but Tony was thoroughly distracted from being offended by the feeling of Steve pressed flush against him, his skin almost painfully hot against Tony’s bruises, and the heavy, gradually hardening weight of Steve’s cock against his hip bone. He swallowed a groan as Steve tilted his head to the side and bit hard at his neck, arching up into the muscular thigh so courteously wedged between his own. Tony wouldn’t admit to anything as undignified as writhing, but the way his hands scrambled about had as much to do with involuntary reactions to Steve worrying an impressive bite mark into the meat of his throat as it did with getting his hands on Steve’s outstandingly firm backside.

He rolled his hips up at the same time he pulled Steve forward, forcing them to grind against each other, a sensation that was only improved by Steve’s low, surprised groan. Tony could feel Steve hardening against his thigh with every roll of their hips, which was almost as flattering as it was arousing. He wanted to get his mouth on it, see if he could take Steve apart just like that, make his eyes glaze over, soften the harsh frown lines of his face. 

The thought of Steve above him, wrung out and dazed and flushed, made Tony groan through his teeth, and he skated a hand up Steve’s back and into his short-cropped hair, pulling him away from Tony’s throat and back onto his mouth, where he belonged. He made sure this time to push back properly against Steve, make him work for it. Steve was physically stronger, to be sure, but Tony wasn’t without tricks of his own, like the way he sucked on Steve’s tongue, or nipped none so gently at his lips, all the while running his fingers through the fine hairs at the back of Steve’s neck, making him shiver faintly. 

It was immensely satisfying, then, that when they separated again, Tony wasn’t the only one panting for breath - Steve’s eyes were dark and shuttered, his mouth slick and swollen. It was an extraordinarily good look on him. “Well-kissed looks good on you, but I’m willing to bet well-fucked will look even better.”

Steve blinked once, twice, and then smirked again, evidently satisfied with Tony’s gung-ho attitude. “Only one way to find out.”

“See, we’re already cooperating splendidly,” Tony said, as his friendly pat of Steve’s impressive bicep turned into a caress. “Though, might I request we move somewhere softer and more horizontal? My ribs aren’t really up for anything too rough.” 

The smirk slid off of Steve’s face almost immediately. “Your ribs? Shit.” He glanced down and- ah, there was the classic Rogers scowl, along with a strange twist of expression that might have been guilt. Tony didn’t want to think about it, or the way Steve was starting to draw back. “We shouldn’t-“

Tony stopped Steve’s hesitant retreat with a white-knuckled grip on his belt. “Don’t even think about it, Rogers.” Panic, held back only by rage, bubbled up in Tony’s throat. He wasn’t going to be thrown back out on the street, he fucking _wasn’t_. “We made a deal. You can’t back out of your own conditions.”

“Your ribs are bruised, Stark, maybe even cracked - you shouldn’t-“

“Fuck you?” Tony laughed at the accidental pun, and also at the look on Steve’s face, worried and angry and sanctimonious as hell. “Actually, fuck you anyway, just for good measure - you don’t get to hold me down and tell me I can’t get help without putting out first, and then change your mind when you find out I’m damaged goods.” He bared his teeth, and tugged harder. “You made a bed for both of us, Rogers, now man up and _lie in it_.”

Steve finally stopped trying to get away, but the hesitation still hung heavy and sharp between them. Tony’s heart, rapid with arousal and panic, beat thick in his throat as Steve looked at him, at his split lip and clenched jaw and flushed skin, and at the bruises mottled across his torso. When he met Tony’s eyes again, the unease was still there, masked with something like acceptance, or maybe something like rage, cool and calm and fathoms deep-- but either way his answer was obvious even before he bothered to speak.

“Fine.” Tony smirked, triumphant, though it dimmed a little when Steve’s jaw stayed clenched. “But we’re taking this easy - I’m not paying for your medical bills if you manage to puncture a lung.”

Tony laughed, which was clearly not the reaction Steve had been expecting. “Of course, darling; we’ll work out medical care in the prenup,” he wheezed, ribs considerably more painful than they had been minutes ago. Endorphins needed come get back into the picture asap. “Now let’s pay a visit to your nearest soft, horizontal surface - I want to see how far you can stuff your cock down my throat.”

Steve actually _blushed_ at that, a dusting of pink across his cheeks that only accentuated the blatant hunger in his eyes and was especially hilarious because he’d been enthusiastically humping Tony’s leg not moments earlier. Tony muffled another laugh, and then stopped muffling it when Steve’s faint embarrassment turned into affronted embarrassment and he growled and kissed Tony again, presumably to shut him up. It was a sound plan, and Tony moaned shamelessly into Steve’s mouth.

He pushed off the wall and into Steve, who stepped backwards with almost unnatural grace, tugging Tony with him. They wound back through the penthouse, breaking contact only when Steve needed to open doors or Tony needed to gasp for air (which was a little more often than he wanted to admit to, but Tony could deal and if Steve noticed, he wisely kept his mouth shut). By the time they reached Steve’s room, Tony was mostly in his boxers and not a lot else, his shoes having been discarded somewhere in the kitchen and his pants victims of Steve’s aggressively wandering hands. Those same hands were currently wandering around in some very lovely places, namely the small of his back and the deliriously sensitive crease at the top of his thigh.

Tony hitched his leg up around Steve’s hip to give his hand more room to maneuver, and sucked in a surprised - and jarringly painful - breath as Steve simply grabbed his other leg and lifted, pulling him entirely off the ground. Necessity dictated Tony cling to Steve’s broad shoulders and wrap his legs around his waist, which turned out to be a fantastic opportunity to grind their cocks together. 

“Glad to see,” Tony panted between sloppy kisses, “those arms aren’t just for show.”

Steve grunted eloquently and sucked on his tongue. It was really quite unfair that he should be so good at shutting Tony up so early in their relationship, but Tony couldn’t bring himself to complain all that much, especially since Steve made such lovely little gasping sounds, low and swallowed, every time Tony rocked his hips up. Steve’s fingers were digging ten perfect bruises into Tony’s thighs - he could feel them forming clearly, hot points of pressure and dull ache just on the right side of good - and Tony’s head was swimming with sensation and oxygen shortage. 

He smacked at one of Steve’s massive shoulders to get his attention - no small feat, considering how focused he was on wrecking Tony’s mouth with his tongue - and managed to gasp out something mostly coherent about moving to the bed. Steve’s eyes, dark and thoughtful, darted to the bed, back to Tony, and his arms tensed like he was considering tossing - or worse, _gently placing_ \- Tony on to it. 

“Oh, put me down, I can get there myself.” Tony growled, irritated. He pushed at Steve’s chest, which was physically futile but it seemed to get his point across. 

“Are you sure you don’t-“ Steve set him down carefully, and Tony batted his suddenly cautious hands away. He didn’t need pity, dammit.

“Bed, Rogers, come on, off with your pants,” he babbled, tugging pointedly at Steve’s belt. “I wasn’t kidding about you fucking my face.” 

Steve frowned, even as his eyes darkened with lust. “That’s not exactly taking it easy, Stark.”

“Look, you can kneel over me and I’ll suck you off - I’ll be lying down and not taking any extra weight and then your mother-hen subroutine can complete.”

“And what about restriction of your airways? Busted ribs making breathing a hell of a lot harder under even normal circumstances.”

Tony rolled his eyes and gestured impatiently himself. “Hello, have we met? I’m Tony Stark, voted New York’s Best-Loved Man-Whore 15 years running - if I didn’t know how handle a little bit of playful asphyxiation, I would’t have made it to 20, trust me.”

Again, Steve looked like he was going to protest - or punch something, but that was basically his default expression, so Tony couldn’t be sure - but this time stayed quiet and shoved Tony back onto the bed. The mattress and duvet were soft enough to absorb the most of the impact, but Tony still gasped at the rough shock of pain. By the time he pulled himself together and sat up, Steve had, as request, ditched the rest of his clothing and was working on unstrapping his holsters. His expression was thunderous, but Tony had a hard time focusing on Steve’s anger when his cock was _right there_ , thick and swollen and uncut. 

“Wait.” He licked his lips. “Leave the holsters on.” 

Steve paused and looked at Tony like he was crazy, but obligingly tightened the straps back down. As he climbed onto the bed, powerful thighs flexing over Tony’s waist, Tony congratulated himself on _good_ idea. Steve was all hard muscle and smooth, surprisingly pale skin, littered with faint scars and puckered bullet holes. His cock jutted up from a thatch of coarse blond hair, darker than on his head, which trailed up to his naval. This close, Tony could see the paler hair spread across his chest and belly, which contrasted nicely with the dark leather of the holsters and the matte black of the gun handles poking out just inside his biceps. Steve exuded power and raw, masculine sexuality in a way that had demanded Tony’s attention even before the mess with Greg, and just the _thought_ finally getting to taste and touch made his mouth water. The anger and irritation still evident on Steve’s face just made it so much better, a brush of fear again overwhelming arousal.

God, he was going to make Steve ride his mouth and hands until he choked, and he was going to fucking _love it_.

Impatient, Tony wrapped his hand around Steve’s cock, shuddering at how he nearly _couldn’t_ , it was so thick, and stroked, slow and steady, like he wanted to commit every inch of it to kinetic memory. Steve grunted and rocked forward, some of the anger melting away as pleased surprise took its place. 

“You should move further up the bed,” Steve suggested - no, _ordered_ , there was no mistaking that tone - voice low and satisfyingly rough. Though reluctant to stop touching, Tony complied.

“Be a dear and get me the lube, would you?” He said, arranging himself on the pillows so his head was tilted slightly up. His neck wouldn’t thank him for the position later, but Tony honestly didn’t _care_. “And a condom, unless you’re clean?” 

His tone, purposefully light and skeptical, got the predicted result from Steve, which was a flash of annoyance and a growled, “I’m clean; shouldn’t I be the one asking _you_ that question?,” before Steve tossed the lube over a bit harder than necessary.

Tony laughed anyway. “I’m a slut, not an idiot, but I’ll make an exception for you. Now get up here, Rogers, knees under my arms.”

As Steve moved into position, Tony poured a generous pool of lube onto his own stomach for both easy access and body warmth. No one liked cold lube, and he was willing to bet Steve liked it even less than normal, though the image of Steve reacting to cold lube by bristling like some sort of irritated cat was amusing enough to make him grin. 

“What are you smiling about, Stark?” Steve peered down suspiciously, though the effect was ruined somewhat by his dark eyes and full-body flush. 

Tony patted consolingly at Steve’s thigh. “Nothing important, darling; now scoot so I can suck your cock.”

He easily ignored Steve’s muttered ‘don’t call me darling’ in favor of focusing on Steve’s dick, red and almost fully erect, the tip only just starting to peek out from the foreskin. Tony kissed it, wet and sloppy, then got his hand around the base and kissed it again, this time letting a bit slip into his mouth so he could get his tongue in the slit. Steve made a sharp sound and tensed his thighs like he was trying not to jerk forward, which just make Tony smile and pull off. He stroked a few times with his hand, dimly fascinated by how the foreskin contracted and retracted with the motion and with how the swollen tip was almost demurely exposed.

“What exactly are you doing?” Steve’s voice was still pleasantly husky, but the annoyance beneath it was obvious. 

“Playing peek-a-boo with your cock, apparently.”

“ _Stark-_ “ he started to growl, but cut off abruptly when Tony went ahead and sloppily swallowed a few inches. The look on Steve’s face was priceless, surprised and broad-sided and a little bit pissed off. Tony would have smiled if his mouth wasn’t so full, and satisfied himself with humming happily around Steve’s cock.

When he pulled off - slowly, cheeks hollowed with suction and the flat of his tongue dragging tortuously along the underside - Steve’s expression had mellowed into pure arousal, his eyes open only enough to watch Tony work. It was immensely satisfying, and inspired all sorts of charitable feelings. 

Tony wiped his other hand through the now-warm lube on his belly, slid a few slick fingers up Steve’s cleft, and started rubbing at his hole. Steve obligingly spread his knees a little wider and rocked hesitantly back, caught between Tony’s careful fingers and light kisses. He was fully erect now, the vein on the underside of his cock standing out in sharp relief - Tony wanted to lick it, and so he did, wet and unashamedly eager. When Steve started squirming again, he pulled back up and sucked hard at the tip, then slid his finger in up to the first knuckle. Steve groaned and rocked down, taking the rest of it into his tight heat. 

It was so unexpectedly wanton that Tony gasped in surprise, and promptly ended up with considerably more of Steve’s cock down his throat than he was prepared for. He choked around it, which made Steve clench up, which made Tony moan, which made Steve thrust in even deeper, both of them acting unwisely on reflex. Unprepared as he was, Tony could hardly breathe, and it took every ounce of control he had to keep from choking for real, throat spasming and fluttering around Steve’s cock in a way that he had to realize was unintentional. Even so, it was still a few pointed heartbeats before Steve finally pulled back and Tony could suck in wet, desperate breaths. 

“Sorry,” Steve murmured, gently rocking on Tony’s finger. He didn’t actually sound particularly sorry, but there was a contrite bend to his frown that was probably sincere, so Tony was willing to let it slide. 

“Just-“ he coughed again, clearing his airway. “Warn a guy, next time.” Not that Tony was especially angry, or anything - unpleasant as being unprepared had been, the sensation of being split open on that huge cock had still been overpowering and arousing. 

Steve hummed out something that might have been an agreement, but was still awfully smug for Tony’s liking. He retaliated with a second finger in Steve’s tight hole and a pointed curl of the digits, which made Steve shudder deliciously above him. Good to know he liked having his ass played with - Tony was going explore that detail much more thoroughly in the future, and then encourage Steve to return the favor.

When Steve relaxed around his fingers, Tony licked up his cock again, lapping a bit unnecessarily at the precome beading out of his slit. Tony considered keeping this sort of thing up for hours, teasing Steve at both ends, never giving him quite enough, holding him on a razors edge of pleasure for longer than any man’s sanity could last - but right now he wanted Steve pleased and satisfied and willing to go along with his crazy plan, and that meant letting Steve take what he wanted, when he wanted. And if what Steve wanted was to fuck his face sooner rather than later, well, Tony would happily shoulder that burden.

He wrapped his lips around Steve’s cock, pulling him slowly forward into his mouth with crooked fingers. This time, Tony could savor the slow slide of swollen flesh against his tongue, the way his lips had to stretch wide to accommodate it, the hectic pulse of a heartbeat against the roof of his mouth, and how Steve actually reached down and pulled his jaw further open to make room. It was fantastic and heady and empowering all at once, and when Steve twitched against his tongue, Tony couldn’t help but moan. He bobbed his head a few times, letting Steve sink further back into his mouth on every rock forward, then took a deep breath and opened his throat. Steve’s cock slid immediately in and in and _in_ , until Tony’s nose was buried in the coarse hair at its base and all he could breathe was the heavy, masculine musk of Steve’s arousal.

The effect on Steve was immediate - he groaned, surprised and breathy and ridiculously sexy, and Tony rolled his own hips uselessly as the sound reminded him that he was also rock hard and totally neglected. Luckily, feeling Steve struggle not to thrust again - and with two fingers up his ass and a hand on his hip, Tony could really feel just how hard-won restraint was - was almost as good as actually being touched. He moaned wet and sloppy around Steve’s cock, drool leaking into his goatee, and tried to signal with his eyes that he was ready for Steve to move. 

Steve seemed to get the message - or just could’t hold off any longer - and started rocking slowly between Tony’s mouth and fingers. Tony just focused on breathing through his nose, on forcing his gag reflex into submission, and on keeping his mouth loose and slick. Steve seemed to appreciate the effort, if the way his breathing picked up was any indication. He curled his fingers into Tony’s hair to anchor himself, a little too tight and completely perfect, and gradually sped up until he was fucking Tony’s throat at a pace just short of brutal. While he was polite enough not to completely asphyxiate Tony with his cock, Tony was probably going to have bruises from the snapping of Steve’s pelvis against his face, which was _really_ unexpectedly hot.

Tony sucked in air as steadily as he could, but he was still edging into the good sort of mild oxygen deprivation that made his body feel like it was floating and the whole world look a bit fuzzy around the edges. He really really really wanted to get a hand around his cock, but didn’t want to loose his restraining hold on Steve’s hip, and had to settle for writhing pointlessly against the duvet, desperate moans vibrating up Steve’s cock. 

They settled into something like a rhythm, with Steve really honestly fucking Tony’s mouth for a few minutes, pulling off long enough for Tony to take a few deep breaths and for Steve to grind down onto his fingers, and then sliding back in, the hand in Tony’s hair angling his head properly every time. Tony felt deliciously used, and couldn’t even bring himself to mind that his lip had split back open, or that he was definitely not getting enough air, or that the wet, half-pained click-chokes he kept hearing were coming from his own throat as Steve just kept stuffing his huge cock down it over and over again.

Steve’s thrusts gradually sped up, unsteady and desperate but no deeper than Tony could reasonably handle, and he started clenching and fluttering around Tony’s fingers, which Tony was willing to bet meant he was close. Tony pulled out all the tricks he could think of to help Steve along, swallowing around the tip of his cock and rubbing steadily at his prostate with two calloused digits, and was rewarded with a series of breathy panting groans that started out low and rose in pitch, rhythmic little ‘ _uh, uhn, uhn_ ’s that sounded so fucking uncontrolled; they were driving Tony crazy, no man as stoic as Steve Rogers should sound so quietly desperate so close to coming. Steve’s rocking stuttered, and his cock swelled in Tony’s mouth, bitter precome dripping steadily onto his tongue.

When he came, with a rich, clenched moan that sounded suspiciously like Tony’s name, Steve thrust harshly forward once, twice, and a third time, then held Tony down on his cock, his grip like steel as he blew his load down Tony’s throat and forced him to swallow it. Tony’s eyes rolled back in his head as he hitched-choked around Steve’s twitching cock and tried to keep breathing, but Steve just kept coming, grinding hard into his mouth until he started to soften. When he did finally pull out, Tony gasped and coughed, the come he hadn’t managed to swallow dribbling out of his mouth and into his goatee. God, what a fucking picture he was.

And of course, Steve, Tony noticed when he’d gotten his breathing back under control, wasn’t a half bad image himself, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon, jaw slack, lips swollen from where he’d bitten them to keep quiet, a full-body flush leading down to his softening cock, which was still visibly wet with his spunk and Tony’s saliva. 

Tony belatedly pulled his fingers out of Steve and wiped them on the covers at the same time he tried to scrub the worst of the come out of his goatee. Steve immediately flopped over beside him and, before Tony could open his mouth to request _some fucking reciprocation, oh my god please oh fuck_ , Steve put his hand back in Tony’s hair and pulled him into a filthy, sloppy kiss that stole what little breath he’d managed to get back. When Steve wrapped his big, warm hand around Tony’s cock and started stroking, his entire body spasmed like he’d been shocked and he made a noise that sounded suspiciously like whimper, not that he’d admit to it. Steve may or may not have laughed against his lips, but then he was plundering Tony’s mouth again, like he was trying to chase the taste of his own come, and that was it, Tony was done for, he jerked and shuddered and spilled messily all over Steve’s hand and stomach and chest, _fuck_.

He also must have passed out a little, because the next thing he realized a warm, slightly damp cloth smacked into his chest. When he blinked his eyes open, Steve was standing by an open window with a mostly finished cigarette dangling from his fingertips, one arm still extended in an underhand toss. He hadn’t bothered to get dressed, which Tony appreciated almost as much as the cloth.

“Thanks,” he coughed, voice very justifiably rough, and sat up. He grunted in pain as the motion reminded him that his ribs were definitely cracked by now.

“You’re getting those looked at tomorrow.” Steve was suddenly much closer, warm and smelling like sex and smoke. Tony scowled but didn’t look up.

“I don’t do doctors, and besides, they’re fine.” He wiped at his face, then tugged his boxers off and cleaned off his torso. 

“You don’t have to leave the penthouse, don’t worry,” and wasn’t that a freaky bit of mind-reading, what the hell. “I’ve got a…physician on retainer who’s discreet and good at house calls.”

Tony hesitated, the cloth clenched in his hand. A small bubble of hope rose in his chest, because it really didn’t sound like Steve was going to go back on their implied deal. “So…I guess that means we can announce the engagement in the morning?” He tried for teasing, but there was a shaky wobble that he couldn’t completely write off as a side effect of a fantastic orgasm.

Steve, the bastard, stayed conspicuously silent, staring Tony down with those cold, calculating, freakishly blue eyes. They were the eyes of a businessman, of a killer, of a soldier, of the boy next door, somehow all at once, but none of those interpretations were completely incorrect when it came to Steve Rogers. Under that hard gaze, Tony felt like he was a breath away from getting his neck snapped, with no more effort than breaking a twig, but also like Steve could just as easily loose that tightly controlled violence on someone else, maybe even on someone Tony pointed to— and wasn’t that the most terrifying feeling in the world, the idea of being the man who could tell Captain Steve Rogers “kill”, and all he’d say in return was “who”.

And then the moment was gone, and Tony was back to holding as steady as he could, lest Steve sense weakness.

“I’ll need to talk to my lieutenants first, get the word to the right people in the right order, and we need to work a lot of stuff out— but yeah, it looks like I’m going along with your crazy plan.” He smiled, hard and full of teeth. “Don’t make me regret this, Stark.”

Tony smiled back, delirious with relief, eyes wild and manic. “I’ll make us kings of this town, Rogers; you just sit back and enjoy the ride.”


	2. Cocaine Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before, and a declaration of hostilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as you all might have noticed, this chapter took about a month longer to write than I'd estimated. This was due to a combination holiday bustle, post-traumatic finals disorder (what), and having to rewrite this chapter about 5 times from scratch. That'll teach me to write fics without fully plotting things out beforehand!
> 
> As always, this is for Marr <3

Steve woke up the next morning like flipping on a switch, instantly alert and perfectly quiet. Even before his short-term memory came online, he could tell there was someone else in his bed, which was a rare enough occasion that he still reacted to it with defensive stillness. His guest was, by all audible signs, still asleep, breathing slow and measured, which helped Steve relax ever so slightly - he knew what it sounded like when someone was faking sleep, after all.

He rolled over, careful not to disturb the bed overly much. Tony Stark was curled up on the far side of the mattress, the vulnerable curves of his upper spine and taught shoulders all Steve could see. He’d fallen asleep relatively quickly the previous night, likely a combination of adrenaline crash and endorphins, but it had taken Steve longer to follow, unaccustomed as he was to sleeping next to another person in his own bed. Steve had stayed awake for another hour or so, listening to Stark’s breathing for signs of distress, and trying to wrap his head around the monumentally risky position he’d just put himself into. 

When he had fallen asleep, it hadn’t been entirely restful. Steve didn’t like surprises, wrenches in his well-oiled machinery, and Stark was possibly the biggest, loudest, most disruptive wrench of them all. Going along with Stark’s plan - which Steve still hadn’t gotten enough details on to be comfortable with - would almost certainly pull heat down on his operation, and that meant thinner patrols, fewer shipments, and a restrained presence in the city’s underworld, all of which would hurt his people and his neighborhood. Stark was just too well known. He had too many enemies that Steve knew about, and likely dozens more that he didn’t. Even if Gregory Stark didn’t bear down with all the might of Stark Industries, Tony was a wounded animal in a world of lean, desperate predators. Someone would take their chance to knock him out.

But even aware of the inevitable consequences, Steve couldn’t bring himself to regret his decision. Stark had shown up at his door, bruised and hunted and wearing the tatters of his ego like a suit of armor, and Steve had known even before Stark had opened his mouth that he’d need help and Steve would be the one to give it. It wasn’t in his nature to leave a wronged man out in the cold, even if it brought hell down on his own shoulders, and Stark was…well, not a friend, precisely, but friendly. Years of passing interactions had planted a small kernel of respect for Stark, despite his drunken, reckless playboy persona, because for every time he’d been caught with his pants down and in the company of several hookers, there were three others, ignored by the tabloids, of Stark developing low-cost water filtration systems, offering free seminars on cutting-edge robotics at local schools, or fitting under-funded hospitals with proprietary StarkTech surgical machinery for free. He was a good man, under the vice and addiction, and Steve didn’t often like him, but he could respect him.

Besides, he owed Stark a major debt, and he wasn’t the sort of man to let it go unpaid. Steve could play house with Stark for a while, smile for the cameras, and take Greg out at the knees, if that was how Tony wanted to call it in.

It helped, of course, that Stark was just as good-looking as his playboy reputation implied. Even Steve could admit to a sort of simmering, physical attraction to Stark, aided by his slick smile, his long lashes, the perfectly sculpted lines of his limbs, and the way he had always looked at Steve with a conspiratorial glint in his eye, like they were sharing a friendly secret. He was a handsome man, and he flirted like breathing, always flashing private smiles and bedroom eyes and touching gentle and hot against wrists and hips and spines, and Steve wasn’t ashamed to admit he’d found it appealing, but he’d always turned Stark down - Stark switched partners like he did ties, a new one at every party, sometimes two, and Steve was no one’s trophy. He also hadn’t particularly relished the idea of having to put up with Stark’s incessant chatter in close quarters (though he seemed to have temporarily solved that problem by just keeping Stark’s mouth _occupied_ ). 

Steve sat up in the bed to get a better look at his soon-to-be fiancée, taking care not to move suddenly enough to wake him just yet. Despite the enormous size of the bed, Stark was as close to the edge as possible, curled up protectively around his ribs, one arm under his pillow, the other curled loosely in front of his chest. It was a surprisingly vulnerable position for so powerful a man, almost childlike in its instinctual defensiveness, but the broad lines of his shoulders and defined muscles of his arms - even in sleep - were anything but childish. Steve couldn’t see his face because of the angle, but that was probably for the best - the last thing he needed was to see Stark’s undoubtedly bruised lips, swollen and red from stretching around Steve’s cock. Just the memory of it set off a low curl of warmth in his belly, and it was going to be a very busy day. He couldn’t afford many distractions.

He reached out and put a hand on Stark’s shoulder, gentle but firm, and shook him carefully. “Stark, wake up.” 

Stark groaned sleepily and curled up tighter, clutching at his head. “No, I refuse,” he slurred.

Frowning, Steve backed off, content to leave Stark alone for the time being. He was awake and presumably lucid, which was enough for 8 am. “We’ve got work to do today, and you need to see the doctor, so don’t laze about for too long.”

Stark grunted out something that might have been “I’ll just lay here until the urge to vomit passes, then,” but Steve was already rolling away and didn’t feel like bothering with Stark’s poor morning habits just yet. 

Steve finally stepped out of bed, stretched, and spent a few moments searching the room for his discarded pants. He didn’t have any meetings until noon, which gave him a few hours to lounge around his house in whatever he wanted, though really he ought to call Banner in sooner rather than later. Stark’s ribs needed tending to, and some of his bruises looked especially painful. They had been red and swollen last night, but even from the far side of the room Steve could see how they’d doubled in size since then, huge mottled splotches of purple and black and green creeping up Stark’s tanned skin from under the sheets. He wasn’t going to enjoy moving for a few days.

The sleek hardwood floors of the penthouse hallways were cold under Steve’s bare feet, but it was a comforting sort of chill that helped clear the morning fog. He swiped his cell phone from the counter changing station, texted Clint an update (“need you here b4 12, bring Banner w/prep for deep bruising & possible fractured ribs”), and did his morning perimeter check, which in a penthouse meant checking doors, windows, and closets, and looking over the security tapes from the night before. Nothing significant, except for Stark’s arrival, but boring was good. Steve liked when his morning routine was boring.

A bit after 9, he was just starting to root around in the fridge for breakfast when the intercom buzzed and a completely unfamiliar voice came through in a brief crackle of static. “Delivery for Mr. Stark.”

Steve froze, opened carton of orange juice halfway to his mouth, then set the juice down, grabbed his pistol from under the counter, and darted to the foyer, adrenaline already pumping down to his fingertips. He stayed in the blind spots of the hallway, gun at the ready, and edged carefully up to corner near the intercom, eyes watching everything. The page could be a distraction, a chance for invaders to slip up the elevator unawares. 

“Who are you?” Steve growled, low and suspicious. No one should even know Stark was with him, which either meant that Stark had lied or been trailed, and Steve was inclined to solve both problems the same way.

He cocked his gun.

“Hogan, sir. I’m Mr. Stark’s driver and occasional errand boy.” Hogan, whoever he was, didn’t sound particularly bothered by Steve’s harsh tone, or even all that worried about life in general. He was either very good or telling the truth, but Steve, as always, erred on the side of paranoia. 

“Look, this is a private residence,” he started, reaching for the emergency call button on his security panel. “I don’t know who sent you here, but—“

“That would be me.”

Steve whipped around, gun aimed instinctively at Stark’s chest, before he managed to override his reflexes. Stark was a friendly, not a threat. He slowly lowered his weapon and slowed his breathing back down to normal levels. Stark was just coming out of the kitchen and stood almost comically frozen, hands raised to his shoulders in the universal sign for ‘unarmed’, his dark blue eyes wide and steady. He’d stopped mid-step, one bare foot half raised off the flooring. Stark had good instincts for a businessman, as he seemed to know that sudden movements around an armed man wouldn’t end well for anyone. Though he was annoyed at the surprise - and the unexpected visitor - Steve could appreciate a level head.

“Some warning would have been nice,” Steve complained, once the tunnel vision had passed. He reengaged the safety on his pistol and slid it under the waistband at the back of his pants. “In the future, you need to tell me these things before strangers show up at my door. That’s a good way to get your people shot at.”

Stark let out a breath that caught halfway out, likely because of his ribs, and started walking casually forward. Despite the morning chill, Stark hadn’t deemed pants necessary; instead, he had on one of Steve’s slightly oversized button-downs and, just barely visible under the dangling hem, his boxers. Steve was almost annoyed by the shirt theft, before his memory helpfully replayed him tearing Stark’s shirt off the night before. He supposed he could afford to share, even if Stark _had_ zeroed in on his favorite bamboo-fiber shirt. “My apologies - I called him when I woke up, but didn’t think he’d be here so soon. He must’ve been waiting in the neighborhood all night.”

“So Greg knows you’re here, then.” Hogan had almost certainly been followed, then - no fault of his own, but Steve couldn’t imagine Gregory Stark would have missed his brother’s personal chauffeur hanging around Brooklyn all night. He did appreciate Stark keeping his responses clear and concise, though - dealing with his usual chatter while coming down from an adrenaline spike wasn’t Steve’s idea of a good morning.

Stark frowned, a little wrinkle of confusion settling in between his eyebrows. “Well, yes, but short of Greg coming by himself, we’re perfectly safe. You are aware that your…territory is a total blackout zone for SI, right? We’ve never been able to get surveillance put in, let alone anything more…active, especially after the Fury incident - that’s half the reason I came here. Greg almost certainly knows where I am, but he can’t do anything about it, publicly or through back channels.”

Steve didn’t answer immediately. He’d known, of course that big players had tried to keep some sort of hold over his neighborhood, especially after the debacle with Fury a few years back, and the Stark brothers were especially keen to at least monitor him. With the debt he owed them both, he couldn’t complain too much about a bit of tab keeping, but didn’t appreciate interference. Steve had made keeping other people’s fingers out of his pies a very personal priority, and it sounded like Greg had been pushing his luck, even before booting Tony out. 

He didn’t doubt Stark’s assessment - or the implication of his own non-involvement - but he was suddenly very interested in just how hard Greg had been trying to edge in. Both Starks were notoriously intelligent, able to do more with the smallest slivers of information than most thought possible, and Steve was just paranoid enough to worry about giving away anything to either brother.

“We’re going to need to have a very long talk about Greg later today,” Steve warned, not unkindly. Stark nodded in agreement, which helped Steve’s mood somewhat, and he pushed the button that would unlock the elevator to his floor. He may have been too hasty in his judgment of Stark as an incessantly chatty annoyance. “So what is Hogan bringing over that you couldn’t wait a few days for?”

“Clothes, my personal cell and computer, some designs that only exist in hard-copy, a few other things - just the basics.” He grinned at that, evidently aware that his own definition of ‘basics’ was far from normal, and sauntered very pointedly into Steve’s personal space. He was close enough that Steve could feel the bed-heat still radiating off of him, could smell the faintest hint of musk, but the way he hunched over his ribs - more obvious now than it had been the previous night - grabbed Steve’s more immediate attention. “No time for luxury when one’s own family suddenly turns homicidal, you know how it is.”

His tone of voice was much harder than Steve had ever heard, even the night before when Stark had been panicked and still bleeding. He didn’t sound angry so much as he did a strange combination of resigned, betrayed, and darkly murderous. It sent a shiver of faint expectation down Steve’s spine.

Sometimes it was easy to forget that Greg wasn’t the only one who could ruin lives. 

Stark continued speaking, glossing over his own darker emotions with practiced lightness and a filthy smirk, though his eyes were cold. “Anyway, we’ve got plenty of work to do, though I’m assuming you’ve started on it already, seeing as how you were so eager to get out of bed. Pity; It would have been better if you’d stayed in for a proper wake-up.”

Steve narrowed his eyes suspiciously at strange tone under Stark’s lazily flirtatious voice. Was Stark hurt that he’d had to finish waking up alone? Unlikely. A casanova like him couldn’t be in habit of expecting his playmates to stick around. More likely he was just playing up the needy lover routine for his own amusement. Steve scowled, vaguely annoyed by Stark’s insincerity. He didn’t like being played, if that was what Stark was doing; the alternative was that he thought he owed Steve his…services, which was even worse. 

“I had things to check on, people to call,” Steve snapped, more defensive than he’d intended, though he immediately tried to soften it up. “And you don’t have to keep up the act. It’s not like we’re actually in a relationship.”

A strange combination of emotions flashed across Stark’s features again, quick enough that Steve almost missed them - confusion in his furrowed brow, a strange sort of hurt in his wide eyes, and skepticism in his pursed lips. Then his expression closed up, flat and still, and Steve was left with the bizarre feeling that he’d said something wrong, though he had no idea what.

“Yes, the _act_ ,” Stark started, voice dripping with distain even while his face remained blank — but then the moment was broken by a sudden knock at the door, less than a foot away from Steve’s head. They both startled, Stark more visibly, and there was a brief scuffle as Stark attempted to open the door and Steve attempted to stop him. It was probably just Hogan, but Steve didn’t want to take unnecessary risks, and that meant he’d be guarding his own threshold, thanks.

When he did finally open the door - just enough to see through, gun held at the ready and out of sight - Stark was still crowding into his space, trying to get a look for himself. Steve did his best to focus on the visitor and resist the urge to elbow Stark in the side. 

Hogan - and Steve had to assume it was Hogan, if the pile of bags and boxes was any indication - stared back at Steve’s wary glare with a look of supreme and utter nonchalance. He was clearly used to putting up with bizarre, anti-social behavior.

Stark pressed warm up against Steve’s back, chin on his shoulder, and jabbed him in the ribs. “It’s Happy, stop being such a paranoid bastard and let him in.”

Steve growled and rolled his shoulder, trying to warn Stark off, but he did open the door fully. Stark darted out and started rifling through his things, flitting around Hogan like an excitable puppy.

“Oh, good, you brought my favorite Armani suit; Happy, you are a _blessing_. Were you able to find the reactor blueprints? Ahh, you did! Did you have to get Pep to help you with those? Don’t be ashamed if you did, I have to have her help me find most of my things, too, I understand.” Stark pushed a pile of boxes at Steve, which he caught automatically, and then slung a few suit bags over his shoulder. Steve stared imploringly at Hogan, who looked entirely too amused under his bland bodyguard facade. “I hope you got my- aha! Ties! Wonderful. Rogers, darling, follow me.”

And then Stark was gone, sweeping past Steve in a flurry of small clothing bags and rolled up blueprints. Steve stood in the doorway for an awkward moment, not entirely sure what to do; Stark hadn’t even given him time to put away his gun, but he wasn’t comfortable leaving Hogan on his own. Hogan, for his part, didn’t seem in the least bit perturbed by Stark’s behavior or Steve’s indecision, and calmly set the last box on top of Steve’s pile. 

“When he gets like that, it’s best to just wait him out, like a hurricane,” he said, patting Steve companionably on the arm. “And keep an eye on him, alright? Mr. Stark can have a hard time letting people help him out, even when he needs it.”

Steve sighed in frustration and tried not to agree too readily. Stark was already a handful, and not one Steve was eager to take on - his moods were mercurial, and Steve still had no idea how to read him. “I’m just here to make sure he doesn’t get killed.” Things would be easier for both of them if they just treated the arrangement like a business agreement, rather than a forced friendship. 

Hogan sighed and nodded, satisfied if not happy. It reminded him of how Stark had looked just a few minutes earlier, pleased but also faintly disappointed, and didn’t like it much more coming from Hogan.

“What?” He scowled, irritated and faintly annoyed, but Hogan just smiled blandly, inclined his head, and turned back towards the elevator, leaving Steve alone in the foyer with armful of boxes. 

He stood there a moment longer, watching the numbers go down on the elevator, jaw clenched, though his thoughts followed Stark. What had he been about to say? He’d sounded angrier than Steve had expected, like he’d been deeply offended by…something. Steve couldn’t fathom what, though - Stark couldn’t be angry about having his advances turned down, right? It was just a show, after all; Steve had thought Stark might be relieved that he didn’t have to keep up the charade.

He finally re-holstered his gun, again, readjusted his load of bags and boxes, and stomped back into the penthouse. He nearly broke his neck slipping on a stray blueprint that Stark had dropped on the way to the bedroom, and when he did finally find Stark, the man was rifling through Steve’s closet, making space for his own things without so much as a by-your-leave.

He dropped the boxes unceremoniously on the bed, put his gun on the nightstand, and wedged himself in the open closet door, blocking Stark’s only route of escape. Stark ignored him for a few moments longer, cramming shoe boxes and suit bags in the empty spaces, which gave Steve time to observe; though Stark was trying for distracted good cheer, the tight lines of his back and shoulders were still stressed and tense. As he stood on his toes to put a box on a high shelf, Steve’s attention was drawn to the eight perfect finger-shaped bruises he’d left on the back of Stark’s thighs - and to the ugly mottling revealed as his shirt lifted up. The sight filled Steve with arousal and protectiveness in turn, both uncomfortably tinged with guilt. 

Staying professional and impartial would have been so much easier if Stark wasn’t so goddamn attractive.

First order of business, then, was to get Stark into some pants, preferably before anyone else showed up. “Stark-“

“You really ought to start calling me Tony; we _are_ technically engaged, you’ll recall. No one will believe we’re happily involved if you’re still using my surna-“

“ _Tony_.”

Stark- Tony finally turned around, a sheaf of ties draped over his forearm, his smirk lazy and practiced. “See now, that wasn’t so very hard. What can I do for you, Captain?”

“Well, you can put on some pants for starters - I don’t think Clint or Dr. Banner will appreciate the view.”

“And what about you, Steven,” Tony tried for teasing, though his voice was faintly clipped, “Do _you_ appreciate the view?”

Steve didn’t quite roll his eyes. Of course Tony would turn the flirting back on as soon as he could. “I don’t mind it, no, but this isn’t the time or place for…appreciation.”

Tony chuckled, apparently satisfied with that response, and started stringing the ties up on the rack. “Good, I was worried you were going to tell me last night was a fluke, or a one-time deal. This is, of course, primarily a business arrangement, but I was rather hoping for some…personal connections as well.” There was the faintest hint of hesitation in Tony’s voice, like he wasn’t sure if his deduction was quite right.

“Personal connections,” Steve repeated, voice flat. He still hadn’t figured out Tony’s motivations on that front, and his own feelings on the matter were…complicated. “Look, I won’t call last night a mistake, and I’m not opposed to a repeat, but sex was never part of the deal - this isn’t real and you don’t owe me anything. I didn’t agree to help just because I thought you’d be an easy lay.”

Tony pursed his lips in faint irritation. “You seemed to imply otherwise when I first showed up - or was I mistaken?”

Steve scowled, uncomfortable at being called out so soon. He _had_ been planning to explain on his own. Eventually. “I wouldn’t have actually turned you out if you’d said no - and you should have, we still don’t know how bad your ribs are hurt.” It was as close as he would get to admitting to his bluff or his intentions, which had been more about testing boundaries than taking advantage, even though a small part of him had wanted to know how Tony would react. Not his best moment, and it was unfortunate that Tony had felt coerced, but he’d needed to know just how desperate Tony was.

Tony hummed contemplatively and stayed quiet for a long moment. “Fine,” he said eventually, “I suppose I can’t fault you for pushing boundaries a bit. God knows I do it often enough myself, and I can hardly argue with the results.” Tony’s smile turned dirty, though there was still an edge of habitual distance to it that Steve didn’t like. “Really though, if you’d just wanted a friendly fuck, you only needed to ask - I’ve been wanting to take a ride for _years_.”

That sounded as close to an ‘apology accepted’ as Steve’s own admission had resembled ‘sorry’, which he supposed was only fair, but he could see the olive branch for what it was.

He snorted through his nose and pushed off the doorframe, wandering further into the closet as he tried to straighten up Tony’s hastily arranged belongings. “I don’t usually have time for flings.”

“Good thing we’re getting married, then, hmm?” Tony didn’t seem at all perturbed by Steve’s half-hearted sideways glare and leaned towards him, resting a hand gently against Steve’s lower back. There wasn’t much room in the closet to start with. “So now that we’ve determined we are neither of us taking advantage of the other, can I have a proper hello? It’s only decent, the morning after.”

Steve thought about throwing Tony off and walking away, because they _did_ have work to do, but it was one thing to ignore his attraction when Tony was being obnoxious and flirting with half of Manhattan or bruised and bloody on his doorstep, and another thing altogether to try and ignore it when Tony was warm and smiling and close and - most importantly - half naked. Especially now that he had a better read on Tony’s intentions, for what that was worth. 

He turned towards Tony, who smoothly slid his hand around to Steve’s hip, thumb stroking over the jut of bone. “And then we get to work?”

“And then we get to work,” Tony agreed, a sharp smile lingering around the corners of his mouth. 

He leaned forward and kissed Steve, not as hard as the night before but certainly not very gentle either, tongue prying apart Steve’s lips the second it was able. Steve pushed back in kind, licking into Tony’s mouth as their hips slotted together, one hand braced just below his bruised ribs, the other wrapped around his trim waist. Tony’s skin, even through the shirt, was blazing hot, likely because of his injuries, but it still felt good under Steve’s palm. He slid his hand under Tony’s shirt and slid it up his spine, gentle for once, relishing how Tony tensed and then relaxed, going so sweetly pliable in Steve’s arms. He pushed forward, careful not to press against Tony’s torso, and nipped at his lips, taking careful note of the shiver that ran through him when Steve ran over the recently healed split.

Still, even if Tony didn’t mind a bit of roughness, Steve had no intention of hurting him further. That could come later, when he was healed. Steve tried to keep the kiss calm, but he’d somehow forgotten that Tony could be aggressive as well - he slipped both hands down the back of Steve’s pants and pulled forward, he sudden grind shocking Steve enough that he groaned into Tony’s mouth, which Tony took as an opportunity to change the kiss from firm and relaxed to slick and shameless, his mouth going loose and wet even as he made Steve’s head spin and his breath catch. It was far too reminiscent of how they’d rutted against one another the night before, and Steve struggled briefly against the arousal pooling in his gut, fighting for the clear-headedness to keep himself on task, but then Tony moaned, lewd, and started rutting unevenly up against Steve’s thigh, like he couldn’t help himself.

Steve growled into Tony’s mouth, a sound that Tony happily swallowed, and crowded him up against the back wall. He pulled Tony’s hands up and over his head, pinning them pointedly out of the way, which only made him shudder, body going languid and easy. He’d probably let Steve fuck him right against the wall, _beg_ for it, even though they both knew it would be a bad idea, maybe _because_ it was a bad idea—

In his front pocket, the one Tony wasn’t currently grinding against, Steve’s phone started ringing. It was Clint’s ringtone, too, so it wasn’t something he could ignore.

“Stark-“ Steve started, only to be cut off as Tony kissed the corner of his mouth, mustache scraping across sensitive skin. He pulled away, though not enough to disengage their hips. 

“ _Tony_.”

Tony finally stilled with a frustrated exhale. He opened his eyes and looked at Steve, and though everything about him, from his flushed skin to his wet mouth, screamed sex, his eyes were sharp and clear and regarded Steve with a reptilian sort of assessment. 

“What?” His voice was low and rough in a way that made Steve’s cock twitch.

Steve cleared his throat, glanced briefly down at Tony’s lush mouth. Clint was on his way over; he wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t an emergency. “I have to take this call, it’s important.”

He took a pointed step back, released Tony’s hands, and answered his phone. “What’s the problem?” 

Meanwhile, Tony rolled his eyes, ignored Steve’s glare, and sauntered unsteadily out of the closet without a backwards glance. It would be just his goddamn luck if Tony ended up taking the interruption as a personal offense.

“We’ve got intruders, boss, and you’re not gonna believe who from.”

“Fuck.” Steve hurried back into the bedroom and put his frustration with Tony out of his mind. “Let me guess - Greg Stark’s cronies?”

Clint pulled in a sharp, surprised breath, but he stayed on target and connected the dots as rapidly as ever. Steve had always liked that about him. “We treatin’ them as hostiles now?”

“Yeah, but non-lethal until I get a better sit rep. All I’ve got now is that the Stark brothers had some kind of fall-out and Tony showed up on my doorstep last night beat half to death. Apparently Greg’s tired of sharing his toys.” Steve changed to speakerphone as he pulled on his Kevlar and under- and over-shirts.

“I guess that means we’re siding with the underdog, then.” It wasn’t a question, and Clint sounded faintly amused.

Steve snorted and strapped his holsters on. “It’s him or Greg, and I know you’ve been wanting to pistol whip Greg since that mess with Fury. I hate to deny you a decent excuse.”

Clint barked a laugh. “And the fact that Stark-the-Younger’s been trying to get you into bed for years is-?”

“A mostly moot point, now,” he groused. “Back to the point at hand-“ Clint laughed again “-I need you to get Banner over here a.s.a.p. and bulk up the security on my place. I want Sam heading up protection detail for now. Tony’s beat to hell, so he shouldn’t be moving much, but I don’t want anyone getting in whom I haven’t explicitly ok’d, and that includes people he tries to let in. Where are Greg’s men?”

“Warehouse on dock 3. They were leaning on shop owners, trying to get surveillance tapes, ask about what they’d seen last night - guessin’ they were looking for Tony.”

“Yeah, probably trying to finish the job.” And that confirmed what Tony had guessed at - Greg knew he was somewhere in Steve’s territory and under his protection. It was more than Steve was comfortable with Greg knowing, but he would deal. “Keep ‘em there, keep ‘em quiet, and keep ‘em scared. Rough ‘em up a bit if you want, but don’t ask questions - I want these assholes confused and hopefully crying before I get there.”

Clint shouted a few orders at his own men. “On it, boss. We gonna need to pull favors with the PD for this?”

Steve shrugged on a suit jacket - his nicest one, black and Italian and sharp as hell - and slipped into some leather loafers, also black. Blood was always easier to get out of black. “I don’t know yet - haven’t had much time to talk to Tony about the details. It’s probably going to depend on if Greg goes public with the feud, or tries to keep it quiet. I’ll let you know when I find out.” Cufflinks were out; he’d be rolling his sleeves up anyway.

“Sure thing. Banner and the car’ll be out front in 10.”

“Thanks. See you in a bit.” 

He hung the phone up, tucked his shirt in, and dug his dog tags out of the bowl on the dresser. Wearing them was a habit now, since he was long out of the army and unlikely to be misidentified in the case of death, but they were a comforting weight and he always felt uneasy leaving home without them. Steve dug a ranger knife out from his sock drawer, clipped it on his belt, and considered his accessory options. Wearing rings would do less damage while also leaving more memorable marks, but it also meant a trip to the jewelry store to get them cleaned and Mrs. Cheswick would throw him out if he made her pick skin out of his graduation ring one more time. He’d just pack the knuckles, then.

Steve could feel the adrenaline buzzing under his skin for the second time that morning, but it was different this time, more focused. There were unknowns, sure, and he’d have preferred doing an interrogation with a little more info on the situation, but he was good at adapting, always had been, and now he had a clear objective: break a few scumbags in half, assess the threat, ready his defenses. Simple, if not always easy.

He strode into the kitchen as he clipped in his earpiece, and was mostly unsurprised to find Tony sitting at the table with the newspaper and a glass of what was probably Steve’s best scotch. He still wasn’t wearing pants, either, damn him.

“Heading out, darling?” Tony didn’t even look up from his paper.

Steve scowled and started digging around the nearby arms locker. “I told you not to call me that.” He pulled out two pistols, checked the slide on each, loaded them, and clipped them into his holsters. “Some of your brother’s men trailed you last night, and my men caught them.” Tony did look up for that, his eyes narrowed over the tech section of the news. “I’m going to go have a chat with these gentleman, see why they thought wandering into my neighborhood was a good idea.”

Tony licked his lips nervously. “And the bristling weaponry is for…chatting?”

“Don’t be dense, Stark,” The uncertainty was new - Tony didn’t seem the type to get spooked by a few guns. Steve pulled the lapels of his jacket in, settled his shoulders into the cloth. “They’re not leaving alive. I’ve got very clear rules and very clear consequences.”

“Right.” Tony’s voice was just a bit uneven, but when Steve looked at him he’d pulled the newspaper back up. “Well, have fun with your…errands.”

Steve stared harder at Tony, as though he could burn through the newspaper blocking Tony’s face with his gaze alone. Tony had closed up fast, and not in the way Steve had been getting used to - now, Tony seemed _afraid_. Had the news of Greg’s men been that much of a surprise? “Don’t worry about them, they’re nothing. Some of my top men will be over later to keep this place on lockdown, and Banner will be up in a few minutes to look you over.”

The news was supposed to have been reassuring, but instead Tony just flipped his paper down and dropped his jaw in shocked offense, all traces of unease gone. “ _Lockdown_? Dammit, I have work to do! You can’t just shut me up in here!”

“I can and I will - you’re in no condition to go out, especially with one of the most powerful men on the East Coast trying to kill you.”

“Fuck you, Rogers, I _am_ one of the most powerful men on the East Coast!”

“You aren't right now,” Steve shot back, scowling. Tony’s temper was getting out of control. "Right now you’re a guy with busted ribs and a hit on him the size of Stark Industries.” Tony opened his mouth to snap at him, his face clouded over with rage, but Steve cut him off. “It’ll be safer for you and easier for me if you just stay here, let Banner take care of you, and let me do _what you asked me to do_.”

Tony stood up and shouted something after him, but Steve couldn’t afford to waste any more time soothing Tony’s ego. “We’ll talk about this when I get back.” He walked out of the apartment, locked the door behind him, and stepped into the elevator.

The last thing he heard before the elevator closed was a dull thunk and the muffled tinkle of glass as Tony threw his glass at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be more exciting and also has a 99% chance of including explosions and risky behavior. Will do my best to have it out in less than a month.


	3. Raising Hell All Over Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony sulks and drinks, Steve punches his way through social interactions, and there's a small security slip-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I am the slowest writer ever. More to come, hopefully soon; thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> Also my apologies for the mild cliff-hanger - this was supposed to be a much longer chapter, but it got away from me and I decided to post two 6-7k chapters instead of one 15k+ one.

Tony regretted throwing the glass almost as soon as it left his hand. Not because he felt bad about shattering good crystal, but because it was a waste of exceptional scotch. Still, there was most of the bottle left and the crash of the tumbler against the solid wooden door had been briefly satisfying.

He stood in the kitchen, half out of his chair, hands tight on the edge of the table, and tried not to snarl. His ribs hurt, his head throbbed, and whatever warm feelings - very warm, positive, eager feelings - he'd mustered towards Steve had evaporated in a flash of hot humiliation. _Left behind_ , like a goddamn invalid, like he was useless, like he wasn't worth the effort. 

Tony wanted to blow something up, preferably something of Steve's. He'd settle for selectively wrecking parts of the penthouse; petty, and probably an awful idea in the long run, but that didn't dampen the urge. Steve's need to pull at all his strings, to buck unwelcome authority, to move his pieces however he damn well pleased, was something Tony had expected - their previous alliance had been tense at best, and getting Steve's cooperation a constant challenge - but he'd never felt like a string to be pulled, not with Steve, not until now. 

Had coming to Steve for help been a poor gamble? Had he given too much away last night, shown too much weakness to a predator? Had Steve's gaze, covetous and satisfied, been because he'd gained a new ally, or because he'd found a new tool to break in? 

Tony swallowed down the panicked roll of his stomach, steadied his shaking hands. 

A sharp knock at the door interrupted him for the second time that morning, and Tony jumped despite himself. It was likely the doctor Steve had mentioned earlier, here to keep his new pawn in useable shape, and one of Steve's henchmen to make sure he did as he was told. The thought made him rankle, and the anger from that pushed away the black despair that had hovered over him. He felt contrary and mulish, determined to break some rules and play dirty just for the satisfaction of having even that much power over his situation.

Tony kicked back in his chair, balancing precariously on two legs, and finished off his scotch. The goon squad outside couldn't knock forever, but he was curious to see how long it would take them to resort to shouting.

It turned out to be not very long at all. A male voice spoke through the door, loud enough for Tony to hear clearly. "I know you're in there!" The speaker sounded calm, faintly exasperated, and almost familiar, despite his obvious annoyance. 

After another round of knocking, Tony wandered over to the intercom, very carefully avoiding the shards of wet crystal on the floor.

"Rogers isn't home right now, please don't leave a message." He didn't _need_ to use the speaker, but shouting through the door was just undignified.

"Don't bother with games, Stark, I've got a key."

Ah. Tony scowled, puckish mood evaporating, and saw several options for getting around Steve's idiotic orders flicker out. Not that locking out a bunch of mafia goons had been much of a plan in the first place, of course, and he certainly wasn't going to turn away medical care (this time) - Tony just didn't appreciate his lack of choice in the matter. He held down the button and spoke with biting sweetness. "That's very nice and all, but I've got a locker full of guns and a bottle of scotch. Fuck off." 

There was a clicking metallic sound on the other side of the door, like a key slotting into something, and Tony quickly latched several chain locks into place. Flimsy, and unlikely to prevent a real attempt to break in, but he had neither the codes for the electronic locks nor the time to hack them. 

The door shook violently as his unwelcome guest figured out what Tony had done. He told himself the swoop of dread in his stomach was just from pre-breakfast drinking. "Son of a bitch-!" Another rattle, one that almost popped the chains off the wall and opened the door just wide enough to give him a glimpse of dark, angry eyes. Tony quickly braced himself against the door.

"Look, I'm sure you're a very nice person under all that ammunition, but I'm just not proper right now. Perhaps you could come back in, oh, six-to-eight weeks?"

"What-? Stark, would you just open the door? I'm an ally, you've got no reason to lock me out."

The shaking stopped, ominously, and Tony briefly entertained the thought of dragging furniture over for reinforcements. "Please, I'm a billionaire - I think I'm allowed to be eccentric and self-destructive."

"You know, when Steve said you'd be a handful, I didn't believe him."

"He would know, wouldn't he?" Tony said, a leer sneaking into his voice. "Though I'd really have to say he's the bigger _handful_ , so to speak."

He heard a faintly muffled groan, and took a moment to congratulate himself on a pun well made. 

The goon outside was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again Tony could hear his frustration held very tightly in check, which was a pity. Picking fights stopped being fun when people wised up. "Look, I don't really care about you or your grudge against help or your arrangement with Cap. Boss sent me over to do a job, I am going to do that job and then leave. We'll both be a lot happier if you just _cooperate_."

Tony squinted suspiciously at the door, which was less than a millimeter away from his nose, for lack of a direct line of sight. "And that job entails what, exactly? Making sure I sit in the corner and behave myself while Steve runs around and punches things into submission?"

"I swear to God-" Goon stopped again and sighed audibly even through the solid oak, though there was a faint bubble in his voice not unlike unwanted laughter. "I'm just supposed to have Banner look over you and make sure you don't get killed doing...whatever it is you need to do. No time-out required."

"And make sure I sit here and play house until the Captain gets back, I'm sure," Tony replied venomously. 

"Not that I heard - Cap just told me to keep you safe and away from your brother, that's all."

Tony paused, trying to gauge the sincerity in the goon's voice. His orders aligned far too nicely with Tony's plans, and seemed to contradict what Steve had said earlier. "So you won't try to stop me from, say, retrieving some personal documents?"

"Not unless you try to leave without an escort, or those documents are in Greg's territory."

It was a suspiciously reasonable compromise - but Tony wasn't exactly drowning in options, and grasping at straws was better than nothing. "I suppose that's acceptable," he allowed, already running temporary escape scenarios through his head. Staying safe was nice, but keeping away from SI - and Greg - wasn't in the plan. He had his own show to run. 

"So glad you approve," Goon said dryly.

For lack of better options, Tony unlocked and opened the door. He stepped back to a more advantageous position - that was, closer to the gun Steve had left on the hall table - in order to watch his uninvited guest arrive, assessing and watching. The newcomer was a tall man, with dark skin, a neatly trimmed goatee, and a swimmer's lithely muscled build, dressed in casual but tailored clothing. There was also an arsenal's worth of munitions sequestered discreetly on his person, which was something Tony was very quickly starting to associate with Steve's line of work.

He stopped just over the threshold, pausing comically as glass crunched beneath his boots.

Tony smiled tightly at the eyebrow arched in his direction. "I missed."

Goon gave him a strange look, keen and avian over his broad nose and high cheekbones, but let it be, which bumped him up a few rungs in Tony's estimation. "Probably shouldn't be walking around barefoot, then."

A shrug, and Tony waved his tumbler around demonstratively, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. "Couldn't find my shoes. Do we know one another? Aside from reputation, that is." His face was familiar, though Tony couldn't quite place it. He also couldn't place the small man who'd followed Goon in. That was presumably the doctor, but Tony only spared him a brief, dismissive glance.

"Sam Wilson." Sam kicked some of the glass out of the way and grinned, white teeth against dark skin, like Tony had made an amusing joke, though his eyes were tight. "We've met, once, back during the Fury thing, but you were pretty drunk at the time. Guess it's no surprise you don't remember me." That was fair; Tony had spent most of his waking hours drunk by default, even before the diagnosis. "Anyway, we can catch up later - right now I've got to do a double check of Steve's security and you've got an appointment with Banner." He hooked a thumb back at the nervous-looking man behind him, confirming Tony's first guess, and walked past him into the penthouse. "Come find me when you're done and we'll talk plans."

Tony watched him go, stalled for time with a few more sips of scotch. Even with the worst of his foul Steve-induced mood dissipated, he felt tired, his bruises too hot and his skin too cold and there was a pressure on his chest that felt like suffocation. 

Behind him, Banner coughed, small and polite. "Ah, Mr. Stark?"

"Yes?" Tony turned around on the balls of his feet, perfectly smooth and relaxed.

"If it's alright with you, I should probably have a look at your injuries sooner rather than later." He didn't seem particularly put off by Tony's flat tone of voice, but then Tony couldn't see his expression, hidden as it was behind thick glasses and shaggy hair. He didn't know what he'd expected from Steve's private physician, but Banner certainly wasn't it. Wary and cautious, he hardly looked like he'd survive medical school, let alone working for the mob.

Still, a doctor was a doctor - which was an idiotic consolation, because Tony disliked doctors on principle, but he was holding out hope for painkillers. "Fine by me. Come on, let's get this over with." He turned and headed for the kitchen, expecting Banner to follow without prompting. He didn't disappoint.

"So are you actually a medical doctor, or just a discreet EMT?" Tony called over his shoulder.

"I'm not a medical doctor, no, but I do have a doctorate in biology with a focus on human genetics and mutations and some...personal experience in handling trauma wounds," Banner huffed, doing a very bad job at hiding his annoyance. "I know enough to know when I don't know enough."

"Well, unless you've got an x-ray in that bag of yours, I'm not how helpful you'll be - I've got no open wounds, and my ribs aren't actually broken. Fractured, maybe, but that's just a matter of healing time." 

Banner was a sullen silence at his back for a few seconds longer, and only spoke up again when Tony took a seat on one of the bar stools. "The Captain said to take a look at you, so I'm taking a look at you. At the very least, it's easier to have someone else wrap your ribs." He sat his bag down on the table and started rooting around, messy hair obscuring his gaze. "Now, please take your shirt off and tell me what happened and where you're hurt."

Tony poured the rest of his drink into his mouth, but this time let it linger, the sweet burn of alcohol sharp against his tongue. It was a welcome distraction from recalling the previous evening's attack, and helped dull the perpetual ache from literally every inch of his body. He didn't like doctors, or psychiatrists, or journalists - they were always asking questions, picking at his story, trying to find out what had happened and how they could _fix it_. 

"Three grunts, in my living room, with clubs of some kind. They were on me before I even turned the lights on, and aimed almost exclusively for my torso." Which made Greg sending more goons after him a bit of mystery - if it had been a hit, a blow to the skull would have been more efficient, and if it hadn't been a hit...then what was the point? "I think I felt something snap in my rib cage,-" a dull, wet pain, accompanied by an explosion of sharp agony that had left him breathless, "-but it doesn't feel like there's any jagged edges or broken bone." He set his glass down and took off his shirt, purposefully not looking at the ugly mass of bruises or Banner's expression. "My breathing is-" Tony inhaled, "-not restricted under normal circumstances, but anything more strenuous than sitting or casual walking hurts." Which he hadn't mentioned to Steve last night, but then it hadn't been a problem at the time. It wouldn't be a problem now, if Steve had given in to a bit of early morning play time - endorphins were amazing painkillers.

Banner felt at his side with cold, clinical fingers, pressing uncomfortably hard on the lines of his ribs. Tony sucked in a quiet breath but otherwise didn't react. "Hmm, well..."

Tony turned Banner out and fixed his eyes on the far wall, thoughts already racing through possibilities and projections and motives. He had to get to the Midtown safe, grab up the few useful cards left in his hand before Greg forced a play. It was only a matter of time before Greg pulled ahead, of course, he always did, but the only thing Tony hated more than being left out to dry was having to ask for fucking _charity_ at the end of it. It had been hard enough to ask for help. He doubted Steve would keep him around if he couldn't keep up his end of the bargain, and the humiliation of that outcome was worse than the fear of Greg's plans.

In that light, Steve's conservative behavior seemed reasonable enough, protecting his investment and all, but it was ultimately useless - Tony would be dead within the year anyway, and didn't have the luxury or desire to wait for more favorable circumstances. Speed and action were the only options left, even if Steve didn't yet understand why. He'd hoped, distantly, that their alliance might have at least facilitated a sort of friendliness, but that didn't seem likely. It had been a stretch to ask for blind faith, let alone respect, especially when he'd never even gotten that much good will from his own family.

He hissed when Banner prodded at an especially deep bruise - "Ah, that's a crack" - and tightened his hand on the edge of the counter. Tony had only himself to blame for the sickly disappointment churning in his gut.

\--

"Look, man, I've told you everything, I promise, please-"

Steve cut him off with a casual blow to the face, hand curled into a tight fist. He really ought to be sticking to open-palm blows - more pain, less damage - but he'd had an hour of listening to these thugs blubber with nothing to show for it. 

The thug's lip split, which was briefly satisfying, but Steve had been hoping for something more tangible. There was a limit for how long he could keep up pointless violence before it made his temper worse, rather than better. 

"Son, this'll go easier for all of us if you just give me something I can use, and if you stop forgetting how to treat people with basic respect. We can't have a very good conversation if you're just shooting off your mouth however you please." Steve kept his temper in check through sheer force of will, and sat down in the chair facing his subject. Not that they could see each other, with how badly swollen the thug's eyes were. He may have been weeping; Steve couldn't tell and didn't particularly care.

He leaned forward slowly, purposefully letting the movement be heard. The thug flinched, badly, metal edges of his chair knocking up against each other at the panicked motion. "I swear I swear I fuckin' swear to _God_ , man-- _sir_ , I don't know anything I- please, I told you what I know, please, sir, please--"

"That's better - and don't sell yourself short; I'm willing to bet you know more than you think you do." Steve took a slow drag of his cigarette and decided against putting it out on the thug's exposed skin again. Both of the hired men had been stripped naked and bound to chairs at wrists and ankles, partially as a precaution and partially for tactical reasons. Men with their balls frozen to rusty metal chairs were generally easier to talk to. "Let's start from the top, ok? Tell me your name, where you're from, and how you got hired. I'll stop you if I've got more questions."

"R-Robbie. I'm Robbie Valdez, I'm from the Bronx, I drive a delivery truck for this shitty Italian catering joint-" He cut off in a high-pitched whimper as Steve blew smoke into his face, shuddering violently. Steve waited, patiently. Valdez was broken, and pushing further would render him useless.

Valdez sucked in a shaky breath, hunched protectively over his torso - not that it did much good. "Ok, Ok, there was this guy, big dude, dark hair, sunglasses, I don't remember his name, I promise, he came up to me after a red-eye shift, said he had a job for me, gave me ten G's right there, said I'd get twice that if I did it, said it wouldn't even matter if the cops caught me, his boss had an in." Steve narrowed his eyes - that was a new detail. He'd known that Greg had some pull with the police, of course, but to be flaunting that power to a bunch of two-bit crooks... "I told him I didn't run jobs like that any more, that I'd gone straight, but- look, ma- sir, it was a lot of fuckin' money," Valdez whined, high and thin. "D-Do you have any idea how hard it is to make rent when you're still on parole? All I had to do was track down this rich dude, smack him around a bit, easy job. Guy said he was already hurt, that he'd be alone and panicked, that it'd be easy work, and I didn't have to k-kill him, just knock him out and leave him somewhere no one would find him! I wasn't gonna kill him, I promise, I don't do hits, sir, I'm not a killer!"

It was a good plan on Greg's end - hire a contractor to find a bunch of street trash to take an easy, high-profile hit, pay in untraceable cash, and then leave them out to dry when the cops inevitably found out. No mention of Greg's name anywhere, nothing that could be traced back to him in any legal way.

Good thing Steve didn't use legal channels.

He stayed quiet for a moment longer, listening distantly as Valdez continued suck in wet, shuddering breaths, his panic obviously rising at Steve's stretching silence. Valdez's story held up well enough, though Steve had his doubts that Valdez was as ignorant as he'd claimed about who was paying his bills - and why. Maybe Clint was having better luck with their other guest. 

Steve's phone started ringing, the jazzy, swinging ringtone echoing tinnily in the cavernous warehouse. He peered suspiciously at it for a moment, but it was just Sam, probably calling to complain about Tony. "Sorry about that, I'll just be a minute." Steve tapped on his earpiece. "Hey, Sam."

"You sure know how to pick 'em, Rogers." Something that was probably heavy rock was playing in the background, though not loud enough to drown Sam out.

Steve grinned and stood. "I did warn you."

"Not well enough, you didn't. Anyway, I know you're busy, but I figured I ought to let you know what Stark's up to today- our Stark, I mean. Hell if I know what Greg's up to, that's your job."

"More like Clint's; I got the idiot to interview, he isn't giving me anything. Waste of my time." Steve growled, annoyed, and behind him Valdez stiffened and whimpered. "So where are you and Tony off to?"

"Some bank in Midtown - we're using his driver, so I don't have the address, but I don't remember Greg ever having much of a presence there. Shouldn't run into any trouble."

Midtown? That was odd. As far as Steve knew, Tony banked where all the other obscenely rich tax-avoiding businessmen did - offshore. He did have an apartment there, but Hogan had already delivered Tony's personal things. "Keep an eye out, anyway. Did he say what he was picking up?" Probably his will, if their discussion last night was anything to go off of.

"Documents of some sort? He started rattling off a bunch of tech jargon, talking about some proprietary blueprints for like, a giant death robot or something, I wasn't paying attention." There was a grin in Sam's voice even so - he was probably excited to take a look at whatever Tony was digging out. Sam had been special ops, once, and whatever he'd done while serving had left him with a knack for weapons tech.

Valdez sobbed quietly, pulling Steve's attention. Street-tough or not, he was pretty clearly broken, and Steve wasn't sure his little remaining usefulness was worth the effort it would take to pull out. "You'd better pay attention - I'm not about to trust Tony to tell me what's going on with his techno-bullshit. That'll be your job." Sam barked a laugh. "I'm going to go see how Clint's doing with thug #2. Call me if anything comes up."

"You got it, boss."

He ended the call with another touch to his earpiece and turned back to Valdez, who was slumped forward in the chair again, still except for the faint tremor in his shoulders. It was unlikely he'd be a problem any time soon. 

Hopefully, the same could be said for Tony. Steve could admit that trying to keep him confined to living quarters had not been his best decision, not in the least because nothing short of full body restraints would have worked to keep Tony there. He knew Tony well enough to be realistic about his technical expertise - bypassing security would have been child's play - and to suspect that he'd appreciate being cooped up about as much as Steve would. He'd hoped that Tony would at least _trust_ him to do what he'd promised, or that they could treat one another like real partners, but that had always been a long gamble. Tony didn't play well with anyone. Letting him out with a Sam-shaped leash was the best keep him out of trouble and make him less likely to throw more crystal around, which was honestly the most that Steve could hope for.

He started walking away, one hand shoved in his trouser pocket. "Think real hard about what you might've forgotten to tell me, Valdez," he said, loud enough to let his voice boom off the concrete walls. "I'll be back."

Valdez may or may not have made another whimper in response, but Steve didn't stick around to find out.

\--

Unlike Steve, who liked to juxtapose empty, vaulting rooms with personal, intimate questioning, Clint preferred the classics - small, windowless room, bright spotlight, cold air, isolation. It smacked of professional training, which Steve was happy to have at his disposal, even if he didn't always like the actual methods. 

The other thug, Santorum, was whip-thin and vicious, more tenacious - and street-smart - than he was strong. He reminded Steve of himself, years ago, but only for a moment. Santorum's hands were bound to a small table in front of him, thumbs a bloody, pulpy mess. They were the only visible injuries on him, but they were obviously enough. He jerked in his seat and looked mutely around, eyes wild and dead and streaming tears, as Steve entered the room. The spotlight kept Santorum from seeing much, but like Valdez his senses were heightened enough with panic that he could probably hear where Steve was.

"Everything alright, boss?" Clint was cleaning his thumb screws, meticulously scrubbing down every inch with sterilizing solution.

"Yeah, just thought I'd come see how you were doing. Valdez isn't going to say much more."

Behind them, Santorum shuddered violently in his restraints. 

"Told you he'd be useless. Dumb street trash like him never knows anything."

Steve shrugged, accepting the rebuke. "It was worth a shot." Not to mention he'd needed something constructive to do - not even a day of involvement and the mess with the Stark brothers was making his skin itch. Too many possible vulnerabilities, not enough intel; too many landmines around Tony, not enough safe approaches.

"Sure." Clint started packing away his tools, which was promising. "Lucky for both of us, I fared a little better. Go ahead and ask our new best friend - he's gotten pretty chatty." He grinned, sharp and eager, which was always a bit strange for someone so normally stoic.

Santorum turned his head, staring blearily at the sound. He had to realize he'd become the center of attention again, but there was no panic in his eyes, only flat acceptance. Steve raised an eyebrow at Clint, got another shark's smile in return, and stepped forward so he was only just in the floodlight.

He knew full well the image he presented, features still mostly hidden by the shadows, smoke wreathed heavily around his head, the spots of blood visible on his shirt, and was pleased to see it earned a response. Santorum hunched over further, watery eyes skittering away from what little he could see of Steve's figure. The muscles in his arms tensed and bunched compulsively as he struggled uselessly against the cuffs, fear response weighted heavily towards flight. It wouldn't do him any good.

"Repeat what you told my associate," Steve ordered, voice calm and heavy. There was no need to keep up the paternalistic act with someone so thoroughly broken. "Every detail."

Santorum gulped in a shaky breath, eyes wide open and spoke quickly. "We were hired by a guy I knew. Me first, and then Robbie on his own. I knew Robbie back when we were doing time, he's a good kid so I bring him along on some of the lighter jobs sometimes. I only know the big guy's nickname, but me and him - me and the big guy, that is, not me and Robbie, Robbie doesn't know shit - we do dirty work for big wigs sometimes, you know, bouncing and extortion mostly, a hit every once and a while, the stuff they can't be assed to do themselves. Pays good and they keep the pigs off our backs."

"Big wigs like Greg Stark?"

"Yeah, yeah, like Stark," Santorum nodded eagerly. "I knew it was him who gave the orders this time as soon as I heard who the target was."

"Why? You normally act as a go-between for family feuds?"

"Nah, man, but these Starks, they're always at each other's throats, you know? Me, I bounced some parties for that crowd once - they arm their bouncers, so I don't get shit for not being big enough - and I swear to God they always spend the whole time screamin' at each other about money or whatever, like they don't have enough of it already, or about tech shit, or 'cause the brother - the hit - got too drunk or fucked the wrong person or whatever."

Steve tapped the ash off his cigarette and frowned, suspicious. He'd probably been at a few of those parties himself, and everyone knew that Greg and Tony were....acrimonious at the best of times, had been for as long as anyone had known them, and it wasn't much of a secret that Tony's habit of falling from one bed to the next caused trouble for SI PR. "But that doesn't prove that Greg ordered the hit - they've been doing that for years."

"I-I--" Santorum froze, like he hadn't expected the question.

Steve glared back at Clint, who threw his hands up defensively. "Hey, you're the one who hangs out with the upper crust. It seemed like a good explanation to me. Money's the motive like 90% of the time - don't you watch Law & Order?"

Steve rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Santorum. "Try again," he growled.

Santorum looked around frantically, obviously trying to find a satisfactory answer. "I maybe- I don't- wait! Wait. There might have been-- I heard them talking- yelling- a while back, some party last month? I didn't really hear much but I think they were fighting about the brother bein' sick, like bad sick, because there was a lot of yelling but also lot of normal talking, like they didn't want to be heard, and something else about some tech, I don't know what. I left when someone started throwing shit." Steve must have looked angry, because Santorum quickly scrambled for something else to say. "I-I didn't think it mattered, ok, it just sounded like another argument, and what's it matter if the other Stark's got the clap or whatever? I didn't think, I promise, I swear I wasn't leaving anything out on purpose, swear to God." His voice ended on a high pitched swallow, previous catatonia long since gone. 

Steve stepped slowly out of the light and back to Clint, waiting a few seconds for his eyes to readjust. He jerked his head at the door. "Outside."

He turned things over in his head while Clint packed up, speaking only once they'd closed the door behind them. "Just my luck, Greg managed to hire the two most idiotic hit-men in the city! Most of the afternoon has been wasted gathering intel I already _had_!" Abruptly, Steve turned and punched the wall, his fist leaving a sizable dent in the flimsy metal siding. 

"Oh, calm your tits, Cap," Clint jabbed, leaning up against the building. "You knew this was a shot in the dark as soon as we found 'em - bottom feeders never know what's going on. At least we got some confirmation."

Steve pulled his hand back and scowled, flexing his fingers to check for damage. He shouldn't have done that. "It doesn't take an idiot to figure out Tony was telling the truth about who's after him."

Clint didn't respond immediately. "What? No, not that, the stuff about Tony being sick."

"He said he was clean," Steve snapped without thinking.

" _Ha!_ I knew it, Sam owes me 50 bucks." Clint cackled. "Nah, I mean sick for _real_. There's rumors everywhere about it." 

"Since when?" Steve asked, mulish and faintly embarrassed. Halfway across the city, and Tony could make him slip up. "I've haven't heard anything."

"That's because you've been trying to avoid both Starks since the Fury thing. And it's recent, only in the last few weeks - apparently Tony's been acting strange-"

"He's always been a mess, how is that news?"

" _Strange_ strange, like giving things away and getting into charity work and restructuring the company."

That pulled Steve's attention. Tony had never been content to lie back and let Greg run the company - their multiple public arguments confirmed that - but he'd always been careful to maintain SI's delicate balance. A major restructuring would definitely cause family problems. 

Clint was watching him carefully over the rims of his sunglasses, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

"So, what? He gets sick and has some kind of billion-dollar mid-life crisis?" Steve crushed his cigarette under his heel. "Why haven't the papers picked up on this yet?"

"I don't fuckin' know," Clint shrugged, ignoring Steve's eye roll. "I'm just saying, a major change in behavior because of some mysterious illness is probably the best explanation we've got for why Tony suddenly got thrown under the bus."

Steve hated to admit Clint was right, because that was the vaguest and most idiotic motive he'd ever heard, worse than money, but there was nothing else to go on. Both Starks were playing their cards extremely close to the chest, and for all that Steve was pretty firmly on Tony's side, he was still mostly in the dark about _why_. He needed more intel, and that meant he needed to talk to Tony, soon. Hopefully while they were both calm and fully-dressed.

He ran his fingers through his hair, stressed, but immediately straightened his part back out. "Alright, fine, let's go back inside and--"

Steve's phone went off again, buzzing away merrily in his pocket. He picked up impatiently - if it hadn't been Sam, he wouldn't have picked up at all. "What?"

"We've got a problem - Stark's gotten loose."

"What?!" Fuck. "How _exactly_ did an unarmed businessman manage to slip past you?" _Fuck_. He should have known something like this would happen. Tony had gone along with his chaperone far too easily.

"He-" Sam stopped, sounding as embarrassed as he was angry. "He pushed me out of the car. And _no_ , stop, don't you give me shit about that, his limo is something out of a goddamn Bond film, I'm lucky he didn't have an ejector seat!" 

Steve groaned. He shouldn't have given Tony so much leeway, should have insisted he be kept away from his people and his tech - but Tony wasn't an enemy, and treating him like a hostile had never really occurred to Steve. Not that he thought Tony was a hostile, even now. Just reckless and stupid and unable to make compromises for the sake of his own protection. Was every day of their partnership going to be like this?

"Ok, we'll worry about the how later; I need the why and where right now. Where's he headed?" Clint, who had snapped to attention almost as soon as Steve had answered his phone, gave him a look that very clearly said 'told you so'; Steve snarled back, quietly.

"We're still in Midtown - never did make it to the bank, I'm guessing that was a cover story. He threw me out in that alley between the over-priced bakery that does those madeline's Clint likes and the over-priced antique store. You know, across from that barber shop?" Sam had never been great with street names. "I saw him go north and hook a left, but that's all I've got. If I had to guess, I'd say he's heading for Greg's territory, but that's-"

"No, wait," Steve cut Sam off as realization dawned. "He's heading for his second apartment. It's in Midtown, I've been there before." The car was too slow through cross-town traffic - he'd have to take his bike and hope for the best. What could Tony possibly be after that he couldn't just wait for Hogan to pick up? "I'll text you the address, get there as soon as possible, stop him if you can. I'm on my way." He hung up without waiting for a reply and started pulling his shirtsleeves back down. "Clint, get back in there and clean up. Follow me when you're done, I'm taking the bike."

Clint snapped into action, all traces of teasing disrespect gone. "On it."

Steve ducked back in to grab his jacket and keys, then sprinted across the deserted shipping yard to where his bike was parked, hidden discreetly behind derelict cargo boxes. The problem wasn't that Tony had gone AWOL, because he really hadn't - Steve knew exactly where he was headed.

The problem was that Greg had access to that apartment too. He'd been there when Steve had, at some post-Fury celebratory dinner between the three of them, and there was no way Greg wouldn't know where Tony was the second he opened the door. Probably earlier.

Two distinct gunshots, spaced precisely 15 seconds apart, sounded in the building behind him. Steve revved his engine to life and kicked off, wind pulling at his hair.


	4. Kiss Me On My Open Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family drama, bad decisions, and way too many feelings. Things continue to get out of hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to [Mal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/malfaisant/pseuds/malfaisant) for helping me edit this thing last minute and also giving me horrible ideas for later.

Tony hung on to the door handle as Happy expertly swung the limo around a sharp alleyway corner and back into traffic. Sam had no doubt seen which direction they'd turned in, but Tony didn't much care. Getting rid of Sam wasn't about slipping his leash so much as it was in pursuit of some sorely-needed privacy. He trusted Sam- trusted Steve- to keep him safe from harm, mostly, but _staying safe_ wasn't going to win any battles. He needed to take some risks, now that he was back on something like solid ground.

Tony stared down at his phone for a long moment.

"Happy?"

"Yeah, boss?"

"Pull up the divider and take us on a scenic tour of Midtown. I'll buzz in when I'm done."

"Sure thing."

The section divider closed with a soft click, sealing off the quiet sounds of the front seat radio (Happy, inexplicably, liked country, but there was no accounting for taste) and focusing Tony's attention back on his phone. The noise of the world around him - rough city asphalt on state-of-the-art tires, horns blaring in mid-day traffic, the soft sound of wind as it breezed over and around the limo - faded to a dull roar, hooked into the back of Tony's mind like a tether.

Was he making the call too soon? Should he wait, get more information? Tony scrolled down to the G's in his contact list, thumb hovering firm but uncertain over the screen. Did it even really matter? Everything he did, every move he made felt like a mistake now, and Tony could feel the foundations of his world crumbling out from under him.

He needed answers more than stability; needed some modicum of control more than he needed a victory. His bruised ribs throbbed along with the rapid, uncertain beat of his heart, pulsing in his head until it was all he could hear.

Tony tapped the screen, a nervous, forced twitch of his thumb, and raised his phone to his ear. It rang precisely twice.

"I must admit, I wasn't expecting you to call so soon; is this bravery or desperation?" Greg's smooth baritone was calm and even, held tightly in check even while he had the clear upper hand. Hearing him made Tony's stomach roll and his pulse leap, every fight-or-flight response in his body finely tuned towards his twin.

"Again with the black-and-white assumptions," Tony said, light, and steady, sliding the sharp of his tongue into the rhythm of the conversation. "You always have had such a fondness for simplistic dichotomies, Gregory."

"And you've always been incapable of making intelligent decisions, _Anthony_." He sighed, irritated. "But you didn't call to rehash old arguments, and I don't have the time to waste fobbing off your undoubtedly pathetic attempts at ferreting information out of me, so why don't we just cut to the chase, hmm? You have useless questions that I have no intention of answering, but it might be entertaining to go through the motions." Greg sounded like he always did, steady and paternalistic with just a hint of a sneer. It had never bothered Tony before, but now it made his skin crawl, made him wonder if attempted fratricide had always been lurking just behind Greg's exquisitely neutral smile.

He closed his eyes against a wave of disorientation, anger or hurt or both, and tried to keep his voice from showing weakness. "I just want to know why, Greg. I know we've never been on the best of terms, but this doesn't seem like you, darling."

"You would think that, wouldn't you?" Greg laughed, no trace of denial. "You've never really known me, Tony." He sounded gently disappointed, like he was correcting a childish mishap. "I suppose you're hoping for some sort of pithy monologue from me in order to justify your feelings of betrayal, but I'm not about to give you that satisfaction." Something rustled in the background, like Greg was flipping through paperwork. "Here's the truth, brother dearest: you're pathetic. You're a spineless waste of perfectly good genes, incapable of anything but the most mediocre of genius and far too accustomed to free-loading off of the accomplishments of your betters."

"And I suppose you think you're my _better_ ," Tony shot back weakly. His head ached suddenly, a burning pressure pressing at the inside of his skull that narrowed his vision to static points. The floor of the limo was scuffed, probably from when he'd ejected Sam from the vehicle. He hoped Sam wasn't too angry about that - the fall had probably stained his nice white shirt.

Tony swallowed past the hard lump in his throat, covered his eyes with his hand. Too much stimulus, too much input; he felt overloaded.

_Stress can exacerbate the symptoms_ , he thought distantly.

"Of course I am," Greg said conversationally. "You lack the drive to make use of your talents, you instinctively roll over when confronted with conflict, and I'm simply tired of putting effort into you. It was only a misplaced sense of familial sentiment that forced me to keep you around this long."

It was a ploy, of course: Greg was trying to pull him away from the subject at hand by twisting his emotions, a trick he'd used since they were children. Tony had long since learned to live with how Greg always made him feel burnt out and hollow.

"I'm fairly certain the _Jericho_ was more than just 'misplaced sentiment.'" Tony's voice cracked roughly at the end, but he didn't attempt to correct the slip.

"I'm not _denying_ your genius, Tony - you are a Stark, after all. The problem is that you never learned to push yourself, or to use that genius to do anything useful. You have no control, no discipline. I'd hoped that you would eventually mature, but I've grown tired of holding out and I certainly have no interest in pandering to your childish ways for the few remaining months of your life, not when I can just hurry the process along."

Tony sucked in through his teeth, leaden realization settling heavy in his gut. Greg knew, then. He'd suspected, but there was no joy in the confirmation, only a feeling like free-fall as everything clicked into place.

"Process? You make fratricide sound so _natural_." His stomach rolled, protesting too much scotch and not enough food. He probably should have taken his medication.

Greg didn't acknowledge the deflection, of course: he was probably feeling smug at how long it had taken Tony to catch on. "You're not very subtle, you know. Never have been. Did you think I wouldn't notice you making all those _charitable donations_ behind my back?"

"Since when is giving to charity something new and unusual?"

"It isn't - but when you give away proprietary technology for free, when you refuse to patent perfectly good inventions, when you start dismantling lucrative military contracts for the sake of another idiotic _water filtration system_ ," he hissed, "You aren't just pulling in good PR or avoiding taxes anymore."

"What did it even matter? None of it was associated with SI." He'd made sure of it, specifically to avoid drawing Greg's ire.

"See, that's where we differ," Greg said, his voice gone strangely taut. Tony thought he could hear some real anger seeping back into his brother's voice, but it could just as easily have been his imagination. "Do you think that just because you invent something, it belongs to you? StarkTech is _our_ tech, and you had no right to give any of it away."

Tony didn't answer right away. Had Greg just sounded....hurt? betrayed? Unlikely, but curious. "It's my tech and I'll do whatever I damn well please with it - no amount of legal contortionism will change that."

"True, but that's really the beautiful thing about it; I can't make the tech not yours, but I can make sure that nothing you do now will matter. Once you're finally dead, I won't have much problem convincing the courts that you were legally incapable of making rational decisions in the last few, sad months of your life. I'll paint a very tragic story; perhaps I'll even found a cancer research society in your name. Would you like that, or is it too tacky?"

Tony sucked in a breath, whiplash sharp, and let it out through clenched teeth. "Fuck you."

"Sorry," Greg chuckled, "But I try not to associate with whores, although...I hear a certain Captain does. Tell me, do you really think spreading your legs for Rogers will buy his loyalty? Even you must be smarter than that."

"He's...he's a good man," Tony blurted. "He wouldn't break a promise, he'll keep his word." His voice didn't shake, but his hands did, and Tony tried very hard not to whine, to insist that Steve could be trusted, that he wasn't wrong.

Greg laughed again, bright and cruel. "He's a jumped-up mercenary playing at Godfather, and there is nothing you can give him that I can't match and double. You have nothing left, Anthony."

Tony hurled the phone before he could think better of it, before he could do more than recognize the almost physical sensation of it _burning_ in his hand. The phone hit the bullet-proof glass on the other side of the car with a sharp thud and a brief spark as the battery pack ripped loose.

He slumped forward and tried not to dry heave all over his limo's interior. The headache was back, pushing against his eyes, pressing out and out and out until it felt like his head would explode. He felt red hot, about to burst, and his brain wouldn't shut up, muttering things like _hydrocephalus_ and _inter-cranial hypertension_ against the curves of his skull.

Very carefully, he bent over double, head between his knees and fingers laced over the nape of his neck. He breathed in, breathed out, thick shaky puffs of air that only barely took the edge off his nausea. Hanging up on his brother so abruptly hadn't been wise, but Tony couldn't handle listening to Greg gloat for a moment longer. He didn't need more reminders that his scheme was so close to hopeless as to be actively detrimental, didn't need to hear his own doubts sneered back at him.

Tony hadn't been lying when he'd told Steve that he and Greg never truly hated each other; it was just that they'd never particularly liked one another either. It hadn't been a problem - you didn't have to like someone to love them, to work with them, to build an empire with them - but now that Tony had seen what was hiding behind Greg's pleasant dislike, now that Tony had to acknowledge how little he had to offer, even Steve's reserved annoyance felt unsettlingly like a noose around his throat. He couldn't ignore it. His entire world was falling apart around him and Greg was right: Steve wouldn't keep to their bargain if he got a better deal. He had no reason to trust Tony, no reason to invest in Tony's safety, and Tony didn't believe for a second that a few vague promises of weaponry and sex would be enough to change that.

He needed leverage, needed to invest some solid capital. Greg had all his patents tied up in enough red tape to choke a person - probably his intention - but a lifetime of running a business only mostly on the right side of the law had left Tony just paranoid enough to keep some of his best ideas very far away from the patent offices. That didn't mean he was eager to put those same ideas into the hands of a man like Captain Steve Rogers - a man whose calling cards were gutted corpses, strung up high and painted garishly in American colors - but it wasn't like he had much of a choice. Steve's loyalty - if he even had it - was the only thing standing between Tony and the undoing of everything he'd worked so hard to build. He literally had no choice left but to trust in Steve without reservation.

Tony sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face, pressed his fingers against his eyes until he saw stars. He tried to ignore the way his cheekbones stood out in newly-sharp relief, the way his mouth was chapped and still bruised, how he could already feel the beginning of gaunt hollows in his cheeks.

He needed a fucking drink.

"Happy!" Tony buzzed through to the front compartment before he could think too hard about why. "I'm done, let's get back on schedule. Penthouse on Park Ave and East 45th, posthaste."

Happy, ever affable, turned the limo smoothly around a corner and didn't ask questions. "Sure thing, boss."

"Thanks." Tony cut off the intercom before his voice cracked.

\---

When Steve was younger, back before he lied his way into the Army, he had severe asthma. Still did, actually, though he'd since gotten his triggers under control and didn't even need to carry medicine around most of the time. But as a kid, they'd never been able to afford inhalers, or medicine, or treatments. They couldn't even afford to move away from their dank, moldy apartment complex. Steve had had attacks every week, and sometimes he'd wake up in the middle of night with his chest tight and his lungs frozen and sparks in his vision as he gasped for air.

Even as a child, scrawny and gaunt, all bones and hollows, he'd hated how weak it made him feel, like his entire body was out of his control. But...he'd never felt anything but relieved about how his desperate, pained wheezing could always get his mother's attention. No matter what time of night, no matter how many back-to-back shifts she'd worked the day before, Sarah Rogers would rush to his bedside. She would press their foreheads together, breathe with him until his lungs stopped spasming, and run her frail, calloused hands down the knobs of his spine. It hadn't worked every time, but it had kept him alive, kept him out of the ER they couldn't afford, kept him from panicking. On the longest, darkest nights, Steve can still remember the scent of her hair, floral and smoggy and safe.

She'd died when he was 14. He hadn't even known she was sick (she'd always been so small, so pale, like him), just came home one day to find her collapsed on the kitchen floor, body already cold. Numb and uncomprehending, he'd put their foreheads together and begged her to come back, tried to keep his breathing steady, just like she'd taught him, even as he'd choked back sobs.

(Bucky had apparently found him like that, hours later, though Steve can't say he remembered it.)

When Steve pulled up to Tony's apartment building just in time to see an explosion blow out the windows of several residential floors, great gouts of flame licking up the art deco crenellations, he felt that familiar cold paralysis squeeze at his lungs.

He stumbled off of his bike instinctively and made for the front door. The blast wave hit the street level a second later, showering the area with tiny, burning shards of glass and slag. Steve ducked out of the way, cursing as some of the debris landed on his exposed skin, and darted over to the relative shelter of the building's awning. He could hear sirens wailing, people screaming, and the dull roar of the fire already raging 20 floors up. Residents streamed out of the apartment complex, too panicked to notice someone else making his way in.

Steve shoved through the crowd, pushing evacuees aside, and made for the stairs. Rationally, he knew it was unlikely Tony was still alive after a blast like that; either the blast itself or the after effects of being trapped in a burning apartment would prove fatal. Even if he was somehow still alive, he was almost certainly injured or unconscious, and unable to get himself to safety. Going in after him was a terrible idea- Steve wasn't a medical professional, he wouldn't be able to assess damage or danger properly. He'd probably just put them both at further risk.

But waiting patiently for the EMTs was not an option. He'd made a promise and he would keep it, come hell or high water, and the idea of leaving Tony for the response teams made his stomach turn.

Steve pulled out his phone and jabbed at Clint's speed dial. He sprinted up the stairs with little concern for the panicked evacuees still stumbling down.

"Clint!" He barked as soon as the line picked up. "Get your ass over here, _now_!"

"So, that's a 'the sirens and swarming feds are my fault', then?" Clint had the nerve to sound calm.

Steve swung around the banister on the 8th floor landing. "No, it was probably Gre- wait, feds? Why the hell are the feds heading this way?"

"Becau-" Clint was cut off by an extremely loud horn and the sound of screeching tires. "Sorry, traffic. Anyway, there are feds because New Yorkers are sort of touchy about bombs in the city, yanno?"

Steve worked his jaw side to side, annoyed, and noted distantly that the smell of smoke was now strong enough to burn at the back of his throat. "Fine. Pick up Sam, get over here, and stall for time. I don't--" he coughed, twice. "I don't want my name getting dragged into this, but see if you can convince the feds not to rush in right away."

"This a Stark thing?"

"Yeah, Tony's apartment just blew, probably with him in it."

Clint whistled lowly, which mostly covered up the sound of another driver shouting obscenities at him. "This is getting real bad, real fast, Boss."

"I know, I know." Steve stopped at the 12th floor landing. His chest felt tight; it was probably - hopefully - just from running up a dozen flights of smoke-filled stairs. "Just get here and wait for me, I'll be back out soon."

"Wait, what the hell-- Steve, you can't seriously be going in after him! The building is _on fire_ , I can see it from here!"

"I'll be fine, just keep the feds distracted until I figure out what the hell's going on." Steve hung up without waiting for a reply. He didn't need Clint telling him that running into a burning apartment was suicide; he knew that well enough on his own. Tony's only chance for survival lay in rapid response, and the EMTs wouldn't be fast enough. Steve might not be fast enough, either.

By the time he reached the 20th floor - Tony's floor - the smoke was down around his shoulders, thick and heavy even in the stairwell. The burning smell of it filled his airways until every breath was a parched struggle, but Steve forced himself to cough it clear. He pulled off his jacket and shirt, wrapped the latter around his mouth and nose, and used the jacket to open the door to the main hallway.

He was immediately hit with a wave of hot, depressurized air. Further down the hall, flames flickered bright through the smoke pouring out of the penthouse's front door, which had been blown off its hinges. Steve could easily see where - and how - the bomb had been set up: set just inside the door and put on a pressure trigger, it would have gone off as soon as someone turned the doorknob. The door-frame was a ragged, charred hole in the wall, and what little of the apartment that was visible through the smog was in a similar state.

It reeked of semi-professional work; the explosion was too big, too loud, too destructive to have been by someone who did precise, targeted hits, but the set up was smart.

Steve kept his head down and his shoulders hunched, wading through the burning wreckage of what had once been an unapologetically opulent foyer. Common sense told him that coming up in the first place was reckless, stupid, that an explosion big enough to blow out windows a floor up could not be survivable, but all he could smell was burning wood and upholstery. There was none of the rich, heaving tang he associated with seared flesh, which meant Tony hadn't been caught directly in the blast.

A few feet further down the hall, Steve spotted where the door had gone. It was on the other side of the foyer, blackened and resting unevenly on what initially looked like debris, and it wasn't until he saw the scuffed leather loafer sticking out from it that Steve realized there was a person underneath. He got down on his hands and knees to avoid the worst of the smoke, thick and disorienting at such a proximity to the fire, and quickly pushed broken chunks of door aside.

Tony lay underneath, crumpled and unmoving. He was on his back, one arm curled loosely in front of his chest, presumably from where he'd raised it in defense, and a slow trickle of blood oozed from his nose and into his mustache.

Steve checked for a pulse and found one, steady but frantic. He ignored the blood pounding in his ears, the flames roaring just meters away, and carefully shook Tony's shoulder. There was no way to tell if anything was broken, but nothing looked out of place. It would have to be enough.

"Stark." Nothing.

He shook again, harder than he meant to. " _Tony_."

Tony groaned, started coughing harshly, and curled instinctively towards Steve. Steve felt dizzy - relief or smoke, it didn't matter, he didn't _care_ \- and pushed Tony's shoulders back so he could get a better look at his face.

"Are you hurt? We need to get out of here."

"I..." Tony stared back at him blearily, his eyes bright and unfocused. Temporary blindness from a blow to the head? "Steve? You can't--" He started coughing again, violent enough that his whole body tensed with it.

Steve quickly patted over Tony's head and spine, checking for injuries. "Don't let 'em get the safe, 's in my closet," Tony slurred, hands grasping weakly at Steve's undershirt. There was a wet spot on the back of his head, and he gasped when Steve's fingers skirted along the edge of it. "Sssafe, I need--" He cut off coughing again, not as harshly as before, but Steve knew loud and hacking was a better sign than weak and breathless. He levered an arm under Tony's shoulders and pulled him into a splayed sitting position, Tony's back against his chest, Steve's hand steadying against Tony's sternum.

Tony muttered something indistinct and pawed at Steve's hand, limp and uncoordinated. Steve grasped at it automatically, then hooked an arm under Tony's knees, tightened his grip, and stood. Lifting Tony wasn't hard, not with how lean he was, but standing put them both back into the smoke. Tony groaned and coughed, and Steve fought to keep from doing the same. It was too hot and too thick to breathe through, even with a shirt around his face. Tony wouldn't last long in the smog.

Steve maneuvered them around the hallway debris and back to the stairwell as best he could, Tony a long, limp weight in his arms. He wasn't moving, and his clothes were stained - probably irreparably - with scorch marks and black soot.

_Concussion_ , Steve thought as he kicked open the door to the staircase, followed by; _smoke inhalation_ , and; _he's just dazed and short on air, that's all._

_That's all._

The air in the stairwell was clearer, more so the further down they went, and by the time Steve finally stumbled back out into the lobby, Tony was coughing weakly again. The fire fighters were just then starting to rush into the building. One of them stopped to shout something into his radio and then usher Steve outside. The fireman said something, asking about Tony, but Steve ignored him and kept walking. He'd been right; the first responders wouldn't have been fast enough to save Tony.

Stepping out into the bright glare of daylight was a jolt to his system. It felt like a rubber band snapping towards him, bringing all the sound and bright glare of his surroundings back with it. Through the ringing in his ears, Steve could recognize the sensation of adrenaline crash: weak knees and heavy feet, dizziness, the sudden shock of wailing sirens and screaming people. There were stars at the edge of his vision, but they were probably from the smoke inhalation. In his arms, Tony sucked in a thick breath and began coughing again, harsh and audibly pained.

Someone - a paramedic - stepped abruptly into his space, and it took more effort than he was comfortable with to keep from flinching. Her hands were on Tony's neck and head before he could pull back, and he tensed, readied himself to lash out in defense (too close, she was a _threat_ \--)

But then she stepped back and shouted something back at the gathered ambulances.

"Come with me, we need to get you both on oxygen asap; do you need help carrying him?"

"No-" Steve coughed and tried to calm himself down. Tony was still alive, heavy and breathing in his arms. "I'm fine, I can carry him."

The paramedic looked skeptical but didn't argue, just lead him back to an open ambulance where other EMTs swarmed around them-- swarmed around Tony, mostly. Steve tried not to growl, knew it was an idiotic, irrational response, but there was something to be said for healthy paranoia - Greg could easily have slipped some insurance into the response team. It was something Steve might have done in the same situation, plant a few extra men where no one would think to look, make sure messes were cleaned and loose ends were snipped.

The consideration only served to make him more aware of the ways that Greg could follow up, and just how hard it would be for Steve to watch for all of them. Surrounded by dozens of first responders and New York's finest, with the FBI mere blocks away, he could practically feel the knife point slipping between his ribs. Every second glance was suspicious, every brush against his elbow made him twitch, but Steve forced himself to stay calm. Disheveled and charred as they were, maintaining a low profile would probably be enough to keep them safe until Clint or Sam showed up.

Steve plodded after the paramedic, eyes trained on the ground but attention up around himself like a shield.

Eventually, the EMT had him sit on the wide bumper of the ambulance, Tony cradled awkwardly in his lap. Tony was semi-conscious - his face rested against Steve's shoulder, and from that angle Steve could see the unsteady rise of his chest and the dark, fluttering movements of his lashes - but he didn't respond when the paramedic put an oxygen mask on his face or when she found the head wound Steve had grazed earlier. Her hands (Steve watched them out of the corner of his eye) came away wet and dully red.

"How long has he been non-responsive?"

Steve shook off his make-shift air filter as best he could and grunted in thanks when the EMT reached over to help. "He was out when I found him, woke up for maybe a minute, but went back under just after I picked him up."

"'m not unconsssious," Tony slurred quietly. The EMT's face brightened considerably and she gently turned Tony's head.

"Oh, good; it's probably not a serious concussion. How long was he exposed to the smoke?" She pulled up Tony's eyelids, presumably to check his pupils, and seemed satisfied with what she found. Tony made a small sound of complaint, but didn't resist the prodding.

"Not more than a few minutes. I was on my way upstairs when the explosion happened."

"Okay, I'm putting you both on oxygen for a bit." She pulled a mask around Steve's head, which was a welcome relief - just the first inhale cleared his head and eased the nauseous burning sensation in his throat. "Let me know if his breathing gets worse, if he goes unconscious again, or if he starts losing color. We'll get you to the hospital as soon as the police clear you both."

Steve could feel Tony tense up, and his own calm was hard-kept. "Right. Thanks for your help, Ms....?"

"Rosenthal, Bernie. Just doing my job." She did another brisk check of Tony's pulse, flashed Steve a harried smile, and went back towards where the firemen were pulling out other survivors.

Steve watched her go and tried not to glare too obviously at the cops already heading their way. He needed more attention like he needed a gun to the head, and just because most law enforcement knew and feared his name didn't mean he was eager to let them see his face. He wasn't particularly comfortable with going to the hospital either, not with how exposed it was. It would be too easy for someone to slip through the cracks, but...Tony needed actual medical attention. Smoke inhalation wasn't something he could just sleep off.

Clint slipped around the open ambulance door, hands shoved in his pockets like he was just wandering through - a background nobody, not worth a second glance. The fact that he could pull it off in a frantic crime scene swarming with cops and body bags was a testament to his skill.

"Sam's got the cops distracted," Clint whispered. "What's the plan?"

Steve glanced over to where the police had indeed stopped in serious, animated conversation with Sam. "Staying under the radar is the plan. Have the reporters shown up yet?"

"Yeah, they're starting to swarm - and the Feds, too - but we can probably still get out of here without pulling attention." Clint glanced down at Tony, expression unreadable. "He need to go to the hospital?"

"Probably," Steve conceded, listening closely to the wheeze of Tony's breathing. "But I don't want to risk exposure. I'll call Banner again, get him to dig up some oxygen tanks. It'll have to be enough for now."

The skeptical look Clint gave him over the rims of his tinted sunglasses wasn't surprising, but it still made Steve's hackles rise. "What?"

"Nothin'. Just thinking you're going through a lot of effort for this guy." His voice was perfectly bland and neutral and it made Steve suddenly, irrationally _angry_.

"Just get the goddamn car ready, Barton," he snapped, though the muffling effect of the mask took the sting out of it. "And get someone on the apartment; there's a safe in there we need to get out." Who the hell was Clint to judge how Steve kept his promises? Tony'd asked for help, for protection, and Steve didn't see how leaving him in a burning building would have fulfilled either condition.

Clint rolled his eyes and gave a lazy, two-finger salute. "On it, boss. I'm just behind the barricade and Sam's got your bike, head on over when you're ready to jet."

Steve scowled after Clint's retreating back and didn't quite grit his teeth.

Tony opened a bloodshot eye and muttered into his mask. "'s right, you know."

"What?" Tony was staring up at him intently, his blue eyes sly and dull.

"Too much effort for me. 's too much." His voice was slurred and hoarse, but there was a dim spark of awareness in his gaze.

Steve pulled off his mask and set it aside. "What are you talking about, Stark?"

"You're not..." he trailed off, shook his head in a slow, wobbling motion. "No reason to- to do effort for me. Nonsense." One hand flapped weakly, a cut-off gesture.

"Tony," Steve started, then stopped, unsure of how to argue a point with someone barely able to form sentences, especially when that someone was technically correct. Now that the immediate anger from Clint's insinuation had drained away, Steve could admit that there was no sensible reason for him to have gone into a burning building after Tony-- but Steve knew in his gut that it had been the right thing to do, 'business arrangement' or not. No one deserved to die like that, trapped in the flames of their own home.

Tony pushed ineffectively at Steve's chest, seemingly annoyed by his silence. "Nonnnnsense, no sense at all. Variables, ca-calculations. Go'amn fffffratricide. Should be gone." Tony sucked in a huge, burbling breath, and he grabbed desperately at what was left of Steve's undershirt and Kevlar. "Don't be gone." His voice was small and broken and breathy. "Please don't be gone too, already lost--" He started coughing. "Lost Greg, lost him, I couldn't..."

Something like panic rose in Steve's throat, thick and watery. The way Tony was staring at him was-- it was too much, too open and raw. He took off Tony's oxygen mask with perfectly steady hands, and tried to ignore the way Tony kept muttering into the hollow of his throat ( _don't be gone_ ), gripping tight with what little strength he had.

Steve clenched his teeth and tried to find something, _anything_ other than Tony's wide blue eyes to look at. "Come on, Stark, we need to move." He levered Tony upright with his arm around Tony's waist and Tony's arm across his shoulders, and slipped around the ambulance, trying to ignore how limp Tony was against his side. They were similar enough in height that it wasn't an awkward arrangement, but Tony wasn't walking well; his feet stumbled and dragged in an uneven rhythm, like his muscles had simply forgotten how to move. He leaned heavily on Steve for support, kept trying to speak, low, desperate murmurs that Steve couldn't - wouldn't - make out.

At least he was conscious. At least he was alive.

Clint was parked on the other side of the traffic barrier, just down a nearby alleyway. He stared at Steve for a moment, head cocked, then shrugged and opened the car door. Steve grunted, annoyed, but slid into the back seat without argument, Tony in a controlled fall just behind him. He was too tired to correct Clint's insubordination, too tired to do much more than help Tony into a sitting position, close the door, and wait for Clint to get them home.

But he didn't have the luxury of being tired: he needed to start planning his retaliation, needed to find out exactly what had happened and _why_. He'd pulled Tony out of a burning building and he still didn't have a goddamn clue why Greg had turned on his brother in the first place. Nearly 24 hours after Tony had first come to him for help, and Steve still couldn't do more than _react_. He had no information, no game-plan, no idea what was going on. He was wandering in the dark, throwing punches at anything that came close enough to make out but unable to go on the offensive. It was an insult to his pride, to his professionalism, and to his training. He was _better_ than this, better than rushing into a goddamn _house fire_ because of a fucking _feeling_ in his gut.

Tony slumped against him, boneless but breathing steady, and Steve felt some of his anger ebb away, unspooling, whisper-soft and solid, like fine steel wire. He put his face in his hands, smeared soot all over his forehead and into his hair, and exhaled.

\--

The ride home was quiet, despite the looks Clint kept shooting him through the rearview mirror. Tony slipped in and out of consciousness as his breathing permitted, and though he was fully awake by the time they pulled back into Brooklyn, he didn't move away from Steve's shoulder.

Steve helped Tony out of the car, thanked Clint - brisk, without any real heat - and started the trek up to his apartment. Tony was walking better, shaky but even, and they didn't have to take the stairs, but even just walking over to the elevator made Steve's eyes want to droop closed.

He felt wrung out and limp, and could already tell that he'd be in a world of discomfort come morning. Tony was worse off, of course, with small burns pockmarked across his face and arms, dried blood still in his beard and tacky on the back of his neck, and half an eyebrow conspicuously singed off. In the stillness of the elevator, Steve could feel every time a tremor worked its way through Tony's limbs. He was obviously struggling to remain standing, but for some reason unwilling to ask for more support.

And wasn't that a hell of a metaphor. Steve was too tired to work up his temper, but he knew he'd be roaring mad come morning. Everything that had gone wrong today had happened because Tony couldn't be assed to listen to orders, to communicate, to _trust_ the people he'd gone to for help. He'd nearly gotten them both killed, had definitely gotten _someone_ killed, Steve had seen the body bags. Greg might have set the bombs, but Tony had walked into the fucking trap.

He couldn't remember Tony being so reckless before, even during the worst of his scandals. He'd always struck Steve as a man willing to flirt with danger, drunk and sloppy, but smart enough to know when to pull back. For all of Tony's indiscretions and affairs and embarrassing mug shots, he had always been reassuringly centered, predictable.

Something had changed, and badly enough to pull Tony out of the eye of his own hurricane and into the storm itself. He was compromised.

The elevator door slid open with a quiet chime. Tony lurched forward, impatient and out of step, and Steve had to tighten his arm around Tony's waist to keep him steady. Tony groaned softly, as if in pain, but didn't draw away. He just went still and complacent, his eyes fixed dully on the floor but his body leaning hot into Steve's side. He looked like he'd given up.

Steve navigated them into the bedroom - he needed to get the office refitted, give Tony his own space before they drove each other crazy - and sat Tony down on the edge of the mattress. Tony swayed in place but stayed upright, which was probably the best Steve could hope for. He'd have to call Banner back in, and soon, but he could at least get them cleaned up in the meantime.

He went to the bathroom, stripped out of his ruined clothes, and scrubbed off as best he could with a damp washcloth. The cloth was murky grey by the time he was done and probably permanently stained, but it was better than risking the heat and humidity of a shower. He'd come out relatively unscathed otherwise, though; no major injuries, only a few small burns on his neck and forearms. There was a headache brewing between his eyes, but even that was a distant hurt.

He pulled on some sleep pants and headed back into the bedroom with another dampened washcloth, a first aid kit, and a glass of water. Tony had slumped forward in the meantime, head in his hands and elbows braced on his spread knees. He looked like a ghost, pale, scared, and wretchedly out of place. The uncertain curve of his spine shook faintly with every rough inhale, and it was clear he was trying to clamp down on another coughing fit.

Steve almost hesitated, but forced himself to move at the last minute. He didn't want to stop and think, didn't want to acknowledge the way Tony's vulnerable hunch, like he was trying to curl himself out of sight, put a tight knot in his stomach. He knew his duty, goddammit; he could look after a wounded soldier under his command without getting all jittery.

Tony startled badly when Steve knelt in front of him, eyes wild, but recovered quickly, staring uneasily at the first aid kit. "You're not hurt, are you?" he croaked out, which was an odd thing to ask. Steve wasn’t the one who had taken a bomb blast at close range.

"Nothing serious." He set the kit aside and held out the water. "Drink as much of this as you can, then we need to get your shirt off." Tony looked suspicious - and more than a little dazed, still - but obeyed without complaint, tentatively sipping the water while Steve busied himself with the first aid kit.

Tony set the glass (only half-empty) on the bedside table and started working on his shirt buttons-- or tried to. This close, Steve could see how badly his hands were shaking, fingers curling reflexively. He swallowed hard and didn't look up.

"I- I can't--" Tony's voice hitched suddenly, and Steve cut him off as quick as he could.

"It's fine." The response came out harsh and curt. Steve made short work of Tony's shirt, for all that his hands were shaking as well, popping buttons as often as he undid them, and started scrubbing the washcloth across his soot-stained skin with blunt, thorough movements. Tony leaned forward, slow and boneless, until his forehead was nestled back into the crook of Steve's neck.

Steve kept an ear out for any shifts in his breathing, but it didn't change, just stayed soft and ragged around the edges. Tony breathed like a child, all vulnerable inhales and faint hitches of respiration. He gripped at Steve's arms as the washcloth ran across his neck, the still-tacky blood there undoubtedly pulling at the soft hairs at his nape. Steve scrubbed as gentle as he could around the edge of the knot on the back of Tony's head, trying to get the worst of the blood out of his hair, but Tony still hissed at every swipe of the cloth.

"Sit up, I need to clean off your face." Steve jostled Tony a few inches further upright, enough that he could grip Tony's chin and wipe carefully at the char on his face, but they were still far too close together, foreheads practically touching. Something in Steve's chest burned, raging and calm all at once, urging him to retreat and forcing him to soldier on.

It took a great deal of concentration to keep from tightening his grip.

Tony kept his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted as Steve worked. He made a few small sounds every time the cloth caught on a cut or burn, but otherwise stayed quiet enough that Steve swore he could hear both their hearts beating, erratic and out of tempo. The air in the bedroom seemed to compress, deaden, drape over their huddled forms like a shroud. Steve felt stretched thin as he set the washcloth aside, fingers still cradled around Tony's jaw.

He meant to reach for the first aid kit, but wasn't particularly surprised when Tony curled forward and kissed him instead, grip tight on his upper arms. Steve didn't even tense, just leaned into to the press of lips as easily as he'd walked through fire. He moved his hand to the back of Tony's neck, rubbed his thumb against the razor-perfect edge of his hairline.

A full-body shudder ran through Tony at the contact, and it was like a dam burst: he turned suddenly desperate, held on tight enough to bruise, and sobbed precisely once against Steve's mouth. Steve tried to pull back, to calm Tony down, but he just gripped harder and sucked the air out of Steve's lungs like a man drowning. He could taste the blood on Tony's breath from the burns in his throat and knew his own likely tasted the same.

Tony pulled off with a wet pop and pressed burning, desperate kisses to the corner of Steve's mouth, the rise of his cheekbone, the lines of his jaw. Steve struggled to keep him still, tried to ignore the way his breath kept hitching on every exhale, babbling brokenly ( _thank you_ , _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll be good this time_ ) against Steve's face.

Steve felt like he was suffocating again, his chest tight and burning. It was too close, too fast, Tony's broken voice scraping raw and unwelcome inside his head. He hadn't signed up for this desperate intimacy, for the sensation of Tony drawing blood, burrowing under his skin, as if his defenses were only so much smoke.

He couldn't need it, told himself he didn't.

Steve shoved Tony away, hard, and Tony hit the bed with a cry, more pained than his wounds could account for. He didn't sit back up, didn't reach after Steve, just curled up into a protective ball and made a few miserable coughing sounds.

"I--" Steve got to his feet and felt a flash of guilt, which was ridiculous; Tony had overstepped his boundaries, asked for too much. There was no reason to feel guilty about pushing him away, about denying comfort he'd never agreed to give.

He left the room without a backwards glance, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.


	5. Be A Good Baby, Do What I Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horrible nightmares, gratuitous pain-porn, wildly unsafe medical choices, and entirely too much talking. Tony continues to be allergic to pants. Featuring special guest: Tony's Adorable Skinny Man-Ankles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONCE AGAIN special huge enormous massive thank to Mal for pushing me through this chapter, and a general apology for how fucking slow I am! If all goes as planned, I will have another chapter out this time next month.

Tony dreamed of fire.

It came first in flashes of memory, little licks of flame at the corners of his mind - a perfectly empty hallway, a faint click as he turned the doorknob, the sick drop in his stomach - and then an inferno, smoke in his lungs and a lash of fire on his face. In the dream, he lay prone on the floor and watched as the blaze swallowed him whole, felt his skin burn and char, blacken, and slough off. 

In the dream, there was no salvation, no one breaking through the smog to pull him out into fresh air. In the dream, the dull roar of fire sounded like his name, stretched slow and disappointed over a voice that sliced him open and felt like home. In the dream, he couldn't shout, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but watch as the world burned and he burned with it.

Tony woke up muffling a scream into his own clenched fist. Every part of his body, inside and out, throbbed in pain, a sharp, stabbing ache that exploded outwards from his suddenly-open eyes and mouth. The ceiling of the room swam in and out of focus, palpitating in time with his erratic heartbeat. There was a splitting headache behind his eyes, and his skin felt stretched and raw. Every breath felt like fire burning him from the inside out, but worse than that was the hot nausea rising up his throat.

He was going to be sick, and soon.

With great effort, Tony rolled himself out of bed, gasping when his ribs protested sharply and hissing through his teeth as the gasp scraped raw up his throat. He stumbled a few steps towards the bathroom - or at least towards where he remembered it being, nothing was where it should be, why was everything so hazy? - but collapsed in the middle of the floor, coming down hard on his elbow.

The fall jarred every bone in his body, sent skitters of pain radiating out through his limbs. He grunted, strained and miserable. Maybe he could just lay on the floor for a bit, make pitiful sounds and wait for someone to help him...but Greg was--and Steve-- Tony's mind skittered away instinctively from both thoughts. There was no one left. He had only himself to rely on, now.

He dragged himself stubbornly into the bathroom, elbows weak and rug-burned, gasping for breath through clenched teeth. The cool bathroom tile felt miserably good against his skin, and he'd have happily passed back out there if not for the nausea still bubbling up on the back of his tongue. He could already taste bile, could feel a hot, washed-out sensation prickling across his skin.

Tony heaved himself over the rim of the toilet and vomited messily, mostly in the bowl, and then nearly passed out again trying not to scream as stomach acid ripped up his burned throat. He instinctively tried to suck in a breath, but gagged on a backwash of bile and slipped back onto the floor. He curled up on the navy carpet and screwed his eyes shut, trying not to vomit again. Everything felt too small, crowded and hollowed out and squeezing through his pores.

He lay there for what might have been minutes, might have been hours, body curled tight and hands pressed against his mouth, trying to keep himself quiet, trying to keep the awful sounds in. It didn't work - his breathing was still too fast, pain sparking under his skin - but the illusion was something to hold on to, a last ditch effort to pretend that he was in control. Tony clung to it like he was drowning. 

The swimming feeling in his head gradually receded, leaving him adrift in a haze of unwanted endorphins and faintly twitching limbs. He kept his eyes shut, unwilling to face the bright glare of the bathroom tile and dimly fascinated by the lights blooming behind his eyelids. Part of him recognized that something was wrong, that some essential function had fouled up within his head, but it was hard to stay afloat. 

Tony felt his eyes roll back in his head. His neck went lax, and a groan slipped from between his fingers. Dark sensation, like deep water, swallowed him whole. His skin was on fire, was crawling, was numb. The world burned, stretched endless before him, struck hollow in his bones.

He thought he heard something like footsteps, bare and muffled, but then the tide pulled him under and everything went black.

\---

Tony dreamed of nothing, and woke up like driftwood sliding back to shore, gentle and inevitable, his skin stripped away and his edges smoothed down. 

He was back in Steve's bed, asleep in the divot he'd made in the down comforter when he'd fallen (been shoved) the night before. There were sooty little divots dug into the pristine white sheets where he'd clawed and scrabbled at them in his sleep. The closed blinds let in only enough daylight to see, and the air was eerily quiet; Tony fancied that he could see the motes of dust hanging still in the pale slotted light, frozen like still shots from a crime scene. He felt as though a stray puff of air would blow it all away, scatter him like so much ash.

The moment dissolved between one ragged breath and the next, and Tony blinked the tack out of his eyes. He curled his fingers and toes carefully, waking up his limbs and checking for pain. Unsurprisingly, there was a lot of it - his ribs and throat still hurt the worst, but there were a thousand other little discomforts as well, from the rug burns on his knees and elbows, to the bruising on his limbs and back, and the tight feeling of burned, scabbing skin on his face and forearms. 

Tony rolled his head to the side, briefly closing his eyes against a wave of nausea - right, head wound. There had been a blast of heat and sound, a sickening crack, blood oozing down the back of his shirt before he lost consciousness, and then nothing. Much of the rest of the last day was similarly hazy, disconnected flashes of action with very little greater context. He had called Greg, panic boiling hot in his throat, then told Happy to head for his place on 5th Avenue: that was his last clear, uninterrupted memory. Everything up until the explosion was just...gone, and everything after throbbed in and out of consciousness like a bad hangover, all sweaty palms and pockmarked memories. It wasn't until they'd gotten back to the penthouse that he could start filling in the blanks, and that-- he wished couldn't.

It had been so easy, though, just to fall forward, to beg with desperate breaths for whatever meager scraps of affection he could find. Something in the pale, soot-stained skin around Steve's eyes had hinted at safety and security, that wasn't conditional upon Tony himself but was simply _there_. 

He'd been wrong, of course, and just the thought of that miscalculation hurt worse than his ribs, but Tony could admit it was a weakness he'd always had, that craving for a constant. Greg, for all his egoism and his compulsive need to control, had always been that constant, and now that he was...gone, Tony had no idea how long it would take for him to stop feeling adrift. More time than Steve was willing to give, certainly. His quick retreat had proved that.

Tony opened his eyes again slowly, let them adjust to the filtered morning light. That he was even capable of experiencing another morning was something of a surprise; Tony had fully expected to be removed from the penthouse as soon as Steve could manage it. Then again, Steve was a very chivalrous gangster. He was likely polite enough to allow Tony a full night's sleep before feeding him to the wolves.

(The small, carefully restrained part of Tony that still cringed at disappointment, that could still feel miserable and ashamed of things like 'emotional liabilities' and 'unconditional trust', asked how exactly he'd gotten back into bed only hours before. He ignored it, of course, but it answered anyway with the scent of gun-smoke and warm arms behind his shoulders and knees.)

As the room swam into focus, Tony noticed something strange: on the bedside table was an unlabeled bottle of pills and a glass of milk, still cold and dripping with condensation. Terror gripped him for a second - the oncologist hadn't said anything about hallucinations, not so early - but the milk just sat there, unthreatening and totally real and hugely appealing for all that Tony just wanted some whiskey. Looking at it made his chest feel heavy and perhaps a little bit numb, forcing a quick burble of laughter up his throat. That hurt, of course, but Tony didn't mind so much. 

Sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed hurt too, a lot, and that Tony _did_ mind. He gripped the nightstand for support while his vision swam red and tried to keep his breathing from turning into wheezing, which was considerably harder than he'd expected. Everything _ached_ , from his skin down to his bones, and Tony palmed two of the mystery pills as soon as he could, washing them down with a few careful sips of milk. Hopefully the pills were, in fact, painkillers, and not deadly poison. He didn't think Steve was a subtle enough person to stage an 'accidental' overdose, but he also hadn't expected such a blatant olive branch. The good Captain was just full of surprises, it seemed.

The trek to the bathroom was easier then than it had been the night before, in that Tony didn't quite fall over, but it was hardly easy. He made it the last few steps into the shower stall by leaning on the counter, legs shaky and weak, and only just managed to turn on the water before sliding slowly onto the tile floor. His clothing, or what was left of it, quickly soaked through, and the water ran murky down the drain as it washed away soot and grime. 

Other than the uncomfortable feeling of soggy clothing clinging to fresh burns, the shower was a worthwhile effort. Tony sat with his back against the marble shower wall, legs stretched long out in front of him, and waited for the painkillers to kick in. The hot water cleared his head and eased the soreness in his muscles, but clarity brought the heavy realization that he'd fouled up pretty badly and likely ruined whatever small chance he had at ending Greg's latest game of escalation any time soon. 

It would be so much easier if Greg's actions made any sort of sense. Why, after more than 30 years of partnership - denigratory, vindictive, dangerously competitive partnership, but then it was all they'd ever known - had Greg suddenly turned? His actions seemed short-sighted, impulsive, and nothing like Greg at all. As children, still in the matching outfits their mother had picked out, they'd been encouraged to push each other into conflict, of course, but where Tony cajoled, manipulated, charmed, and invented his way to the occasional victory, Greg had always played a long game. He nipped at heels, sliced through tendons, hobbled his opponents whenever possible, and waited for their slow, inevitable fall. Greg was patient and vicious; he didn't rig explosives to doors, he didn't hire armed thugs. He didn't go on the offensive, and he certainly didn't extend himself without rock-solid support.

A small voice that sounded like Howard snapped at Tony from inside his head, whiskey-thick and impatient, reminding him that complacency was a weakness. It was naive of him to assume Greg would use tried and true methods against his own twin, and Tony knew he was a damn fool for making such idiotic assumptions. Worse than foolish, he had been stupid, panicked. Not only had he purposefully slipped away from his one very tentative ally, but doing so had played right into Greg's hands and brought undue attention down on Steve's head. Tony could hardly blame him for being so ... distant the night before, in light of all that.

Still, Steve had brought him painkillers and milk - _milk_ , really - which was far more than Tony deserved. Better yet, it meant that there was some hope Tony could yet salvage their working relationship, though he'd have to take a different approach. Sex would only go so far, sadly, and the good Captain was obviously not open to building serious emotional ties; pragmatism and good business would be a safer bet, perhaps with a side of heart-string tugging. 

After all, sympathy was so very easy to earn when something like cancer came into play.

\----

Steve lay on the living room couch, stretched out and not at all relaxed, while the shower ran in the other room. It probably wasn't very safe for Tony to try showering on his own - honestly, Steve was a bit surprised Tony could manage to walk that far under his own power - but he wasn't about to do anything as indulgent as checking in. Tony had been breathing, rough and raspy, soot-lined paths trailing over the faint crow's feet at the corner of his eyes, when he'd left the pills; that was enough. He didn't owe Tony extra doting, and someone as self-sufficient as Tony Stark certainly wouldn't appreciate it.

He buried his head in the couch pillow and willed his back muscles to unclench. Several thousand dollars down the drain, and the damn couch still wasn't worth sleeping on. Not that he'd have been able to sleep much anyway even in his own bed, not after yesterday. Exhaustion stretched his muscled into false misery, aching down to the marrow despite his fitness, and he was still too wired, all instincts on high alert. Breathing was still uncomfortable for the most part, though Steve knew full well that Tony had it exponentially worse. It was a miracle he had lived through the night; severe head trauma, major smoke inhalation, and burns, all untreated.

Through two sound-insulated walls, Steve heard the shower turn off. He went still, body tense, and prayed that he wouldn't have to hear the distinctive sound of a body hitting marble flooring for a second time that morning. The last thing he wanted to do - though he'd do it again if he had to - was run to the bathroom again, a hard clench in his throat as he listened for any sign of breathing and heard only whimpering, miserable and delirious and muffled hard enough to bruise. 

He exhaled, unclenched his fist from where it had dug into the pillow. Lack of sleep had made him irritable, panicked. Worse, it made him lose control. He just needed a few days to rest, to get his feet back under him, to wait for Tony to recover enough to be seen in public. Then, everything would be, if not easier, then at least simpler, returned to the bare meat of conflict - enemies and allies and those in between, and all the damaging things they could and would do to one another. Steve was used to that, accustomed to muddy lines drawn in sand or concrete, to fighting for something, against someone. He moved in straight, sure lines, with a clear purpose. He wasn't used to the savagely inscrutable Stark brothers, and the sheer unpredictability of it all made him feel distressingly like a pawn.

Soft, bare footsteps padded on the flooring just behind him, at his 5 o'clock and perhaps five feet away. Steve didn't look up, didn't say anything.

It took Tony almost half a minute seconds to speak, which was longer than Steve had expected.

"Morning. But hardly good." Under the audible damage to his esophagus, there was a sour, almost annoyed note to Tony's voice.

Steve thought about answering, tried to figure out what he could say to start a conversation that they should have had days ago. "No, not good."

Tony shifted behind him, an uncharacteristically nervous rustling of expensive clothing.

"Well then, I guess I'll--" he broke off, coughed dry, and continued. "See about making coffee. Long day ahead."

Surprised, Steve turned round just in time to see Tony retreat into the kitchen. He glared sharply at the withdrawal, eyes tracking every movement, watching for some hint of what was going through Tony's head. Not twelve hours ago, he'd slipped his protection detail, walked into a trap so obvious a child could see it coming, set a building on fire, and nearly gotten himself killed, all on Steve's watch. Now, he was acting like an apologetic child, bribing his disappointed parents into forgiveness with chores and woeful gazes. It was maddening and frustrating as hell, and Steve wasn't the least bit ashamed to admit that just thinking about it made him angry enough to punch something. He could sympathize with Tony's situation and even his injuries, but bull-headed stupidity was unacceptable. Tony had better have a worthwhile explanation for his behavior or deal or no deal, Steve would have to reconsider his promise of protection. He couldn't soak up Tony's risk forever.

By the time Tony returned a few minutes later, Steve had pulled himself into an upright position, elbows braced on his spread knees. He watched Tony move, observed his stiff, unsteady gait, the tension in his shoulders that said he was trying to stay upright, trying not to hunch over his ribs. Tony had once again raided Steve's closet for clothing and once again had on little more than boxer-briefs and a too-big shirt, but there was none of the saunter he'd had the day before. Yesterday morning, Tony had been hyper-alert and predatory, limbs moving broad and confident, a prince in exile; today, he was a wounded animal, elbows tucked in close to his body, eyes darting around from under the long sweep of his lashes.

Tony sat down on the far end of the couch and began arranging things on the table in front of him: a cup of coffee, as promised; the bottle of scotch he'd opened the day before; and an insulated freezer bag. His hands moved quick and manic, just the very tips of his fingers shaking, and only if Steve stared at his hands for long enough to notice.

"Coffee for you and something more fortifying for me," Tony said in a crackling whisper.

Steve took the coffee after a moment, and watched as Tony drank his scotch straight from the bottle. His face contorted in pain, then smoothed out. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer, less harsh.

"So, I'm going to assume you've got some questions for me." He glanced at Steve briefly, as though gauging his reaction.

"You're damn right I do." Steve could feel his temper flaring up dangerously fast, and only just kept from shouting. Something about Tony's calm, submissive demeanor rankled him. "What the hell were you thinking? You ignored me and Sam, walked straight into a trap, and nearly got both of us killed!"

Tony took another sip of scotch. "I won't deny the first two, but the third is at least partially your fault - you had no real reason to come in after me, and every reason not to."

"What?"

"Well, deal or no deal, I'd very obviously just shown myself to be a massive security risk, and entirely capable of attracting all sorts of trouble. But it was still early enough in our partnership that there would be no repercussions if you'd pulled out. Logically, you ought to have just left me for dead and gone back to your usual routine."

Steve glared hard at Tony, who still wasn't meeting his eyes. His voice was flat and passionless, closed off just as easy as he had the morning before. "I'm not in the habit of leaving people for dead unless I damn well want them that way. I don't leave soldiers--men--behind, and I'm not such a goddamn opportunist that I'd let someone die just to save my own skin."

"And do I still qualify as one of 'your men'?" Tony crossed his ankle on top of one knee and placed the scotch bottle in the triangle between his thighs, blatantly suggestive. Steve ignored it.

"Yes," he snapped.

Tony did look up at him then, eyes wide and blue and vulnerable for just a second. "I see." He ran his thumb around the open rim of the scotch, distracted. "Well then, I suppose I owe you some more substantial explanations."

He started by opening the insulated freezer bag and showing off the contents as Steve watched silently - sterilized needles, vials of medication, and dozens of pill bottles, all full to the brim. Steve didn't recognize any of the labels, but then he'd never gotten into to prescription trafficking scene.

“Dexamethasone," Tony placed the contents on the couch between them one by one, lining them up in a neat row. "Prochlorperazine, lorazepam, plus an anti-inflammatory immunosuppressant, an antiemetic, and an anticonvulsant.” The lorazepam was one of the vials of clear liquid. Tony also removed a handful of single-used pre-packaged needles, long and faintly menacing. “There’s also a cornucopia of other things to control the side effects from the first three, because medicine is not as clean and painless as they'd like you to believe."

Steve remembered what the thug he'd interrogated had said, what Clint had hinted at, and felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. "I guess you're not about to tell me you're a prescription drug addict."

"Mm, not so much. I keep my vices simple and obvious - sex, alcohol, recreational street drugs. All very predictable."

"There have been rumors, you know." Steve replied, to which Tony stayed tellingly silent. Steve took that as his cue to continue. "That you've been...behaving differently lately because something's wrong, that you're sick."

"It's not an incorrect rumor, though you'll really have to tell me later exactly how far it's gotten around," Tony spoke with an amused lilt to his voice, like he was sharing a private joke. His eyes, though, were flat and burning. 

"I'm dying, and very quickly."

Steve sucked in a quick breath. He wasn't surprised, exactly, but leaden understanding didn't make the news any easier to hear. He stared hard at Tony, watching him carefully for reactions. "What of?"

"I haven't started to show major symptoms yet, though my doctors assure me I will soon, but," he tapped his index finger against his left temple, "I have a two-centimeter tumor right here. It's malignant, but slow-growing, so I should have some useful time left."

"So you're...and Greg knows?" When Tony nodded in silent confirmation, Steve put his coffee down and scrubbed his hands through his hair. He needed a shower and the rest of that bottle of scotch. "Why, though? Why is Greg suddenly going after you now that you're already...on the way out? Isn't that what he wants?" He skirted carefully around the word 'dying' - and of brain cancer, _jesus_ \- partitioned that reaction off to be dealt with later. 

"Greg may be my brother, but I've never really known what goes on in that overripe head of his. And I admit, it seems a shaky motive - honestly, Greg's probably wished me dead since our father died, he's never been good at sharing - but it's the only thing that's changed recently. We've had a productive truce for years, as you know; he has no real reason to suddenly come after me."

"But you're already-- he wouldn't have to do anything but wait for what, a year? Maybe two?"

"Two on the outside; my oncologist says I'm much more likely to only make it another year, 6 months if it starts growing any faster." Tony fiddled nervously with one of the pill bottles. It rattled as his hands shook. "It's possible that Greg's just leaping at a golden opportunity, he was always very good at waiting for _just_ the right moment, but I think it has to do more with my ah, redistributing of StarkTech."

Right, the 'strange behavior' Clint had mentioned. "Tony-"

"Oh, nothing illegal, don't scowl at me like that - it's just that I had some ideas rotting away on blueprints that hadn't been patented or copyrighted yet and I thought...they might be better off in the hands of people who could really use them." Tony's body language was inscrutable, but his hands were tense and curled, still for the first time that morning. "I mean, it's not as though Greg doesn't have the resources to keep SI afloat and very profitable after I'm gone, even if he doesn't have the same gift for invention that I do."

"You've been giving away StarkTech behind his back?" Fucking hell, no wonder Greg was on the warpath. Neither twin was known for their compassion or leniency, but Greg Stark was especially vicious.

"Well, no, as I said, none of it was patented or copyrighted, and they were all my own inventions, so legally Greg had absolutely no claim to them." Tony started fiddling with the rim of the bottle again, eyes fixed steadily on his own hands. "And I didn't expect him to catch on quite so quick, or care quite so much. None of it was military or communications tech, which are our real money-makers - only some things that I didn't think he'd mind losing. Medical tech, a solar-powered water filtration system, some surgical robots and related software, that sort of thing."

Steve grit his teeth. He couldn't tell if he was angry or trying to hold back an ill-timed laugh. "And you just....gave it all away? That's your reaction to staring death in the face - throwing money at it?"

Tony shot him a glare and snapped back, face flushed. "Fuck you. If it wanted to throw money at death, I'd be down in Malibu at one of those ten-thousand-dollar-a-day cancer resorts, but even I don't feel like hemorrhaging money just for the hell of it." He twisted his torso towards Steve, teeth bared and eyes wild, an explosive flash of temper that took Steve by surprise. "Do you know what the fucking survival rate is for glioblastoma multiforme? _There isn't one_. Brain tumors _don't go into remission_. I have a 17% chance of making it another 5 years, and that's only if I lock myself into a bubble."

"Tony--"

"So no, I'm not _throwing money_ at my impending demise, I'm making peace with it. I had a choice between blowing my fortune and last few miserable months on this earth on making myself more comfortable or for--for once in my life, using all that useless fucking power to help someone--anyone else!" Tony's voice broke painfully; he cut off with a hard grimace and a hand pressed against his throat.

"I'm going to die," he choked out after a long moment, dry and tight. "I'm going to die and I'm sure as hell not about to let Greg undo what little good I can do with the time I have left."

Steve suddenly remembered his mother's face in the weeks before she died, the grim determination burning bright on her gaunt face. Years later, when he'd been able to think about her passing without needing to run off and pick fights with people twice his size, he realized that she'd known she was dying, and also known that she couldn't do anything about it. Sarah Rogers had kept marching on anyway, kept providing for her frail, sickly son up until she fell over dead in her own kitchen. Steve knew the sort of desperation death could bring.

His first instinct, pushing hot and unwelcome up his throat, was to reach out for Tony, to give him some amount of comfort and commiseration, if only because no one else had. 

Steve ignored the urge with an ease born of long years of practice. He wasn't a child anymore.

His second instinct was suspicion. He didn't think Tony was lying, not about something as serious as cancer - and now that he looked closer at Tony, Steve could see the first signs of terminal illness, exacerbated by his injuries: the hollowing of his cheeks, the fever-bright burn in his eyes, the uncomfortable leanness of his body - but in the past 24 hours, Tony had fed him one convenient truth after another, never quite lying, and certainly never telling the outright truth. While it was possible Tony was maliciously leading him on, that seemed an unlikely option. More plausible was that he was scared and paranoid and unwilling to trust Steve fully. 

Steve could understand that - he certainly didn't trust Tony - but that didn't mean he was going to play along. He wouldn't go back on his promise, but he was done charging in blind.

"If we're going to do this, Stark," Steve said, firm and even, "I want full, _active_ disclosure. No telling me what I want to hear, or what you _think_ I need to know. You want a partner, you have to start treating me like one. I am not a piece to be played."

Tony froze, his eyes going comically wide as Steve's words sunk in. His previous look of miserable determination flushed quickly into rage, followed by what might have been wounded pride. He looked embarrassed, humiliated, and sullen. It wasn't a nice expression.

"So I'm supposed to give you everything and hope that will be enough?" The question was honest, too honest, and didn't hurt any less for the flat, withdrawn tone in Tony's voice.

Steve's control slipped, just for a moment, and that first instinct came bubbling back up. "You're supposed to treat me like an equal, not like your brother."

Tony flinched badly, jerking involuntarily at the verbal blow even while his face attempted, painfully, to stay blank. Steve hated himself for the slip, but it was the first _real_ reaction he'd gotten out of Tony, the first hint of a vulnerable underbelly that hadn't been planned for already. "I'm not doing this because I want something from you - I'm helping you because you need the help and because I'd have to be an idiot not to see that having Greg run around unchecked would be bad for everyone except Greg." He pressed on, past the wild, panicked look in Tony's unblinking eyes. "He sent men into my territory, terrorized my people, and threatened my neighborhood - he's as good as declared war on me, and I'm not a fucking _coward_. I will take him down with or without your help, and I will keep you and your property out of his hands, _with or without your help_ , because unlike you and Greg and every other rotten son of a bitch in this town, I understand my duty."

He stopped, because Tony was still staring at him, breathing fast and shallow like a cornered animal. Steve made a conscious effort to lower his voice and push back on his temper, and reached carefully for Tony's wrist, just to keep him from bolting. "If you want to treat me like I'm gonna throw you out at the first opportunity, like I have to be _tricked_ into helping you, you can go right ahead, 'cause I'll be sure to return the favor. But if you want me to treat you like a partner, if you want to help me, if you don't want to see Greg take you apart piece by piece, then you had better start acting like it. I don't work with people who don't respect me, do you understand?"

For a long moment, Tony was deathly quiet, his breathing still quick and steady. He stared at Steve with a strange mix of anger and hope that was far too similar to the desperate way he'd looked the night before. Steve forced himself to meet Tony's gaze levelly.

"I--" Tony said, soft but calm. "I understand."

Whatever panicked energy had kept Tony upright and alert seemed to dissipate, leaving him slumped back against the couch, pale and bled out. His eyes were mostly closed and his face turned away, though he didn't pull back from the hand on his wrist. Steve hadn't necessarily wanted to see Tony so drained and exhausted, but at least it made sense. 

"There was a safe in my apartment--"

"Sam brought it over earlier this morning," Steve interrupted. Tony peered suspiciously at him, so he continued, "You asked me to get it out yesterday, after the explosion."

"Oh."

"Do you not remember?" Steve asked, faintly alarmed.

"No. I don't remember much before or after the explosion. Concussion." He waved his free hand vaguely at his head. "Anyway, that safe is my insurance, so to speak. If you'd like," Tony said, sly and carefully casual, "we could consider it an engagement present from me."

Steve didn't quite roll his eyes, though he was...pleased that Tony didn't seem quite so catatonic any more. It was much easier to deal with Tony's ribbing than it was with his vulnerability. "What's the passcode?"

"M135C-97. If you don't input it fast enough, the safe will lock down until it gets a verbal release and retinal scan from me, so try not to mess up."

"Right."

By the time he returned to the living room with the contents of the safe, Tony had stretched out on the couch with the quickly dwindling bottle of scotch balanced on his chest. He was tall enough that his long, bare legs were firmly occupying Steve's half of the couch, which made Steve scowl a bit.

"Should you be drinking that much so close to taking your medication?" Steve asked, settling the pile of papers and folders and small boxes down on the table. "Not to mention the painkillers."

"I didn't take my meds - chemotherapy is mostly useless because of the blood-brain barrier, so most of my medication is just symptom control, and I find alcohol to be nearly as effective and considerably more predictable."

Steve grunted and shoved Tony's feet aside so he could sit down. Tony promptly put his feet back in Steve's lap, which Steve scowled at but allowed. He could see mottled bruises on Tony's calves and knees, and couldn't forget the finger-shaped bruises on the backs of his thighs. "So what is all this?"

Tony didn't look up, just kept staring blearily at the scotch bottle. "Sentimental junk, most of it - my mother's engagement band, some old letters and photos, a few hopelessly silly designs I did as a child, that sort of thing. You'll be wanting the two folders on the bottom there." He gestured towards them.

Steve picked up the folders as directed and started flipping through them. The first was full of incomprehensible strings of numbers and letters that he thought might have been chemical compounds, but there was a healthy amount of what was definitely computer code mixed in as well. The second was much more straightforward, an enormous, terrifying suit of high-tech armor, exhaustively detailed on pages and pages of blueprints, but just as strange.

"Extremis?"

"It's pronounced 'ex-trehm-is'," Tony corrected. "And I'm going to be honest, I have no idea what it is."

Steve looked back at the cover page of the document, which very clearly had Tony's name on it, and then back at Tony. 

"Well, I mostly know what it is, but I'm not sure what it will _be_. It's like a child with a great deal of potential."

"And this other one? The armor?"

"Alright, that one _is_ technically military tech, but it's still mostly theoretical. Even I can't yet wrap my head around how to build a functioning prototype."

Tony just kept staring at his scotch, fingers climbing lazily up its sides as he kept it balanced. It made Steve's hackles rise for reasons he couldn't quite pin down. "So you've got an....Extremis, which does something but you're not sure what, and this armor, which is unbuildable. How are these supposed to be your insurance plan?"

"I want a future," Tony said, apropos of nothing. "I want to grow old and have sloppy public affairs with models a quarter my age and die of a heart attack in Malibu at 90. I want to do something with my life now that I finally understand how short it is, but I _can't_. I don't have a future, because I'll be dead by this time next year, and I'm...I'm ok with that, I suppose, but then knowing I couldn't have something has never stopped me from wanting it before."

"What's your point?" Steve growled.

"My point is that even with this goddamn tumor," Tony continued, "I want a future. And so, Extremis will be my future. That armor will be my future. Everything I've ever built will be my future, but only if I can keep Greg from destroying it. If I can get Extremis or the armor finished before I die, I will have a future that Greg can't destroy or steal or profit from. I will have _won_."

Steve nearly crumpled the folders, and carefully and methodically forced himself to uncurl his fingers and put them out of reach. "So you're telling me that your 'insurance' isn't actually anything that can help us _now_? That this is all just a way of winning some ridiculous game of sibling rivalry?"

Tony didn't even have the grace to look ashamed. He probably lacked the sobriety, as well; the scotch bottle was down to about half. "I've only been on the run for a day and a half, pardon me for not having a 5-step 'how to defeat my fratricidal twin brother' plan." He squirmed restlessly, unable to get comfortable. Steve put a hand on one of Tony's bony ankles to keep him from kicking too much and was concerned to note that Tony's skin was cool to the touch. "That's what I hired you for."

"You're not really giving me much to work with, Tony," Steve complained, though Tony was getting quieter and stiller as the alcohol and Lortab worked their magic. "What sort of personal resources do you have left?"

"Mmm, my sword, your axe..." When Steve scowled, Tony shot him a crooked smirk. "Too dated? How about my brains, your steel, and Happy's strength?"

"Tony."

"Have fun storming the castle? No? Ah, well." He yawned, politely covering it with a hand, and set the scotch bottle aside. "Well there's my genius and designs, a few loyal employees back at SI, my personal lawyer, a handful of society types - maybe - and I could probably pull a few strings with a reporter I know, if we need some publicity."

It was a good start, all things considered. A few well-placed friends were always better than a mass of casual acquaintances. "What about tangible assets? And how much of your money do you have access to?"

"Greg and I haven't shared anything since we left the nursery - my money is my money, and he really cannot get to it. I'm sure he's already cut me out of SI, but my accounts are bloated enough for our purposes." Tony stretched his legs again, wincing as the movement pulled at his injured, well, everything. Without thinking, Steve started rubbing small circles on Tony's anklebone with his thumb. "I also own the mansion on Park Ave, another penthouse uptown, and a few dozen properties outside of the city. There's probably hundreds of other things I technically own in part, but as Greg owns the other part I'm not about to bank on them still being--" He yawned again. "Being mine."

It was obvious that Tony wouldn't be very useful for planning for much longer, which was fine by Steve - he had plenty of work to do on his own, and most of it would benefit from an unconscious Tony Stark. He shook Tony's foot gently to anchor his drifting attention.

"And what about the marriage? Is that still something we need to go through with?"

Tony blinked blearily, which made him look somewhat like an annoyed cat. "Unless you've got a better idea to prevent Greg from naming himself executor of my estate. There's no way I'm going to die while he's still legally my next of kin." He scrubbed at his face, obviously fighting to stay awake. "Assuming everything goes well, we won't still be married when I do finally kick the bucket, but I don't mind the insurance. I can think of a few - not a _lot_ , but a few - worse people to leave as the heir to my disgustingly enormous....fortune."

Steve's hand clenched briefly around Tony's ankle. There were so many, many, _many_ things wrong with that, but he'd have to wait to address any of them. "Alright. I assume we'll go public with it?" It was the simplest way to keep Greg from calling foul, and it would keep the positive, sympathetic attention generated from the apartment explosion focused on Tony for a while longer.

"Yes. Big, fancy party; next month, perhaps? Two million dollar budget minimum, I expect Dom instead of tap water for the entire evening." Tony looked up at Steve one final time, opening a single sly eye. "And _do_ be sure to invite Greg, would you, darling?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special notice to the handful of folks who ask every chapter if I've abandoned this fic because I'm a really really idiotically slow writer: I have not abandoned this fic. I have no plans to abandon this fic. If I do ever abandon this fic, I will leave messages in obvious places to that effect, because I understand how frustrating it is when authors just sort of let WIPS melt away.
> 
> If you are unsure about the status of KoCI, feel free to follow/contact me on my tumblr, which is the same as my username here :)


	6. (I Should Move On)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions take work; second impressions aren't much easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thanks for the patience. I've been working on a Big Bang that is eating all of my available writing energy, and sadly that means KoCI fell to the wayside a bit. HOWEVER, the Big Bang fic will be posted 11/30, and I've cobbled together a short apology chapter for all ya'll.
> 
> This is a flashback chapter, and there will be more of them at a later point.

When Steve and Tony first met, two years before the mess with Greg, it was at one of Murdock’s to-do’s while Tony was puking into the porch planter. Not the most elegant of introductions, to be sure, but whatever had been in the over-cooked lobster bisque had disagreed most violently with Tony’s stomach--likely because he hadn’t had anything in it but booze--and someone had been in the guest bathroom with what looked like four hookers and a pound of coke, so the poor palm had been his only real option. 

As soon as his stomach had settled, Tony straightened up, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, and turned around, wobbly enough still that he had to grab onto the railing for support. It was then that he saw Steve Rogers, looming on the threshold with the light from inside limning his imposing figure in gold. He stood at perfect parade rest, likely instinctual, and was staring at Tony with a mixture of disgust and compassion that made him look faintly constipated.

“Oh!” Tony widened his eyes comically, playing the drunk. Not that he was sober, of course, but years of alcohol abuse meant he was rarely as drunk as people thought. “Sorry you had to see that--the restroom was otherwise occupied and I doubt our host would have appreciated a mess on his floor. Have we met?” 

Rogers scowled deeply, his lips thinning in clear disapproval. “No, we haven’t.” He hesitated, obviously debating the merits of just leaving, but good manners won in the end. “Steve Rogers,” he offered, holding out his hand.

Not that he needed any introductions--even that early in Steve’s career, he’d been on people’s radars. An Army Captain returning home from nearly two years listed MIA made for good headlines, of course, but when that Captain started offering his…extra-legal peace-keeping services to a major portion of the city, certain people in certain circles sat up and took notice. Tony was one of those people.

He took Rogers’ hand in both of his and shook it enthusiastically, counting on his obvious inebriation to excuse his actions. It usually did. “Tony Stark, professional drunk, though maybe you’ve heard of my company as well? Or, it’s not just my company, my brother and I both own it, but it’s got my name on it so I think I’ve got rights to claim it anyway.” Perhaps he was slightly drunker than he thought. He patted companionably at Rogers hand, which was very large and warm, and grinned dopily. “We make cell phones, sometimes.”

Rogers continued to look unimpressed and pinched, which was not a particularly attractive combination, even on his Hellenic features. “Yes, I know your brother.” He tried to pull his hand away, politely, which simply wasn’t going to work. Tony held on, and smiled innocently when Rogers scowled. “But--look, I was just thinking of leaving anyway, so if you don’t mind—“

Tony stumbled into Rogers’ side, partially to cut off his escape and partially because he’d upset his own balance somehow. Very strange. “Oh, come now, the party’s only just getting started! You can’t leave this early.”

Rogers looked faintly alarmed and tried to extricate himself, but Tony clung on like a limpet. He was drunk and lonely and bored and Rogers made such lovely affronted expressions. “Mr. Stark—“

“Eugh, no, lose the Mr. or just call me Tony; Mr. Stark was my father and is now my brother and I’m quite happy with that arrangement.” He settled his arm into the crook of Rogers’ elbow, mostly for support. Rogers was enough of a gentleman to keep it bent, though he clearly wanted to cut and run. “Look, Captain,” and Rogers looked at him sharply for that, as though his background was supposed to be a secret, “you wouldn’t be here unless you wanted to make friends or the right sort of enemies, and you can’t do that unless you stick around for the after party. You’re likely to get shut out if you treat networking like a business meeting, or, god forbid, a barracks inspection. People with this sort of money don’t respond well to that sort of accountability.”

“So what should I do instead?” Rogers was clearly skeptical, and not taking a word of Tony’s advice seriously, which was all right; he’d change his mind soon enough, and then Tony would have made himself a friend--or a good sort of enemy.

He smiled, sharp, and started leading Rogers back into the house. “What I’ve been doing my whole life, darling; play along and hide your real strengths. Let them underestimate you. And if you can’t do that, take charge and make them fear you. You’ve got to wear some kind of armor, or they’ll go right for the throat. Honesty of character is a liability around here.”

Rogers stopped short of the door and glared piercingly down at Tony. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You do learn fast, don’t you?” Tony curled his grin up into something secretive, and a tad honest. “Let’s just say I know how to plan for the future, and my gut says you’re going to be a very big name around here very soon, Captain Rogers.”

—

He’d been right - by the end of the year, Steve had most of south Brooklyn in his firm grasp, much to the frustration of local law enforcement and a handful of other crime lords. What made Steve interesting, though, what kept him on Tony’s radar, was the fact that he was endearingly old-fashioned about his organization. By all accounts, Steve took over his old turf to protect it. He used his thugs to keep peace, not press for money. He fudged shipping manifestos to bring in extra food, medical supplies, and luxury goods, not arms or drugs or people. Tony honestly wasn’t sure if Steve was actually that sort of gangster or if he’d just watched The Godfather too much. Time would tell.

Not that Steve was squeaky clean, of course. Just after their little chat at Murdock’s penthouse, a rash of violent murders pulled considerable attention into Steve’s backyard. All the victims had been street-level trash, pimps and dealers and gun-runners, strung up by their ankles from construction sites and dock pulleys, chests painted with a white star on a red and blue field only partially obscured by the blood draining from their wounds (pistol shots, three, fit squarely over the heart). 

When the dust had settled (suspiciously fast) from Steve’s house cleaning expedition, he’d emerged back onto the socialite scene like Zeus descending from Olympus, powerful and golden. Naturally, anyone with shady bookwork wanted Steve’s attention, but even legitimate businessman had seen the merit in making friends with the only mafioso in town unlikely to stab them in the back. Tony had kept watch from afar, not expecting he’d be deemed worth Steve’s time any time soon, while Greg shook hands and smiled neatly and pulled attention away from Tony’s drunken antics and back room deals.

He ran into Steve again after just such a ‘negotiation’, clothes rumpled and gait faintly stiff as he closed the door behind him. A fair amount of Tony’s professional friendships involved spreading his legs or rolling up his sleeves, but it wasn’t a hardship - even when happily whoring himself out for business favors or connections, Tony chose his own partners. Greg would have preferred he be a little less choosy, but dropped the subject when Tony suggested they switch networking obligations.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Rogers materialized out of the hallway shadows, his scowl as perfectly fit as his bespoke suit, and Tony inhaled what would have been an extremely undignified noise while also trying not to climb the walls. Coke always made him jittery, even with sex endorphins and alcohol in his system.

"Fuck-- Jesus _Christmas_ , you gotta not do that any more, Rogers, you're going to give me a heart attack." Tony was only slurring a little bit, words muddled and syrupy and tripping all over themselves but comprehensible, which he felt was an accomplishment.

Rogers stared back at him, flat and cold, though there was a quirk to his lips that looked suspiciously amused. "Maybe you shouldn't be wandering around dark hallways, then." 

Tony didn't answer right away, feigning sudden interest in straightening his suit jacket, and took a moment to look at Rogers, really look at him. It had been nearly four months since their little chat on Murdock's balcony, and while Tony didn't think Rogers was a threat, his meteoric rise had left more than a few people wary, Tony included. People simply didn't acquire that much power that quickly. 

In the dim light of the hallway, Tony could see a few more shadows cupped in the hollows of Rogers' face. His hair was shorter, and his suit about twice as nice as before, but he seemed otherwise unchanged. Odd to think that all supposed violence he'd been up to for the past few months hadn't left any mark at all. 

"I'll try to avoid letting you sneak up on me in dark corridors in the future, then." In another place, that situation could either end very nicely or very poorly, and Tony couldn't quite tell if the shiver that crawled down his spine at the thought was anticipatory or fearful.

As if sensing his sudden unease, Rogers tilted his head to the side, watching him with a distant sort of consideration. "What are you doing back here, Stark?"

"Nothing. Networking?" Rogers wrinkled his nose, which was fair, as Tony likely reeked of sex or booze or both by that point. His fingers twitched suddenly, and Tony shoved them into his pocket.

"Networking," Rogers repeated, gaze flicking briefly to Tony's side. "Does your networking always including getting this high?"

It wasn't disapproval in his voice, so Tony tried his best to answer honestly. "Sometimes. Not often. I try not to get into the habit, tends to make me twitchy. Bad for my concentration."

"I can tell," he drawled, lips pulled back in a faint sneer. Tony didn't think it was because of the coke.

"You're quite sanctimonious for a glorified gangster," he said, showing teeth.

"And you've got some strange _networking_ strategies for a glorified accountant."

Tony laughed, involuntarily. "That's the best euphemism for 'whore' I've heard all week, darling. And I'm a glorified mechanic, thank you." He stepped closer to Rogers, suddenly bothered by how the shadows obscured his face. "Surely you've learned that there's more to making useful friends than just shaking hands and bringing dip to parties."

Rogers seemed to twitch as Tony inched closer, but only once and even that might have been Tony's imagination. "I'm not here to make friends."

Tony raked his eyes down Rogers' body, admiring the well-tailored lines of his suit, obvious even in the low light. "Pity. Right kind of enemy, perhaps?"

"No."

"Mmm, ah, well." It had been worth a shot--attractiveness notwithstanding, Rogers was the kind of man Tony wanted out in the open and clearly sorted. He didn't step back, though, and Rogers didn't seem to mind the closeness. "Since you're here, I'm going to assume that things have been going well for you?"

"Well enough," Rogers replied, clearly wary. 

"Lovely. I'd been hearing such awful rumors coming out of Brooklyn--the NYPD is all aflutter about some sort of criminal in-fighting going on. Messy business."

Rogers' gaze narrowed, and he grit his teeth hard enough that Tony could see a muscle flexing in his jaw. It wasn't quite the reaction he'd hoped to earn by evening's end, but it would do well enough. Tony was flexible. 

"Effective, though; you've done a wonderful job of making sure everyone knows who you are without actually giving the police enough proof to do anything abou--"

He nearly bit his tongue off as Rogers shoved him into the wall, one large hand fisted in his rumpled dress shirt. Tony tired to go limp and non-threatening, but he was too keyed up from coke and adrenaline--again, really--to keep his heart-rate down.

"Was that a threat, Stark?" Every word was perfectly enunciated, clear and cold. 

This time, Tony knew the shiver under his skin was fear.

"Simply an observation," he offered. "I'm not really the NYPD's best friend either, at least not privately." 

Rogers stared at him again, alien and penetrating. It reminded Tony unsettlingly of a large eagle he'd once seen as a child, watching him from the other side of the steel mesh enclosure, looking back with a dispassionate, hungry intelligence that made Tony feel soft and vulnerable. It wasn't a good memory.

"So?" Rogers' hand tightened on Tony's shirt, drawing the fabric tighter against his throat. 

"Enemy of my enemy--okay, okay, ease up, I'm not--" Tony licked his lips. "I'm just curious. You're causing some major ripples on my side of the pond. Can't blame me for wanting to know a little more about what you're up to, just as a precaution."

"A precaution."

"Historically speaking, the mafia tends to be big a problem as it is a blessing for people in my position." He left the rest unspoken, trusting Rogers to follow his logic. 

Rogers' scowl deepened at the word 'mafia'--as though he could rightly be called anything else, honestly--but he loosened his grip. "I'm not here to make your life easier, Stark." His jaw moved side to side, mulling. "But I'm not going to go out of my way to make it harder, either."

"I'll be sure to extend you the same courtesy," Tony breathed. 

The answer seemed to satisfy Rogers. He released Tony entirely and stepped back, shoulders still square and tense. Tony felt very strongly that he ought not make any sudden movements until out of Rogers' sight.

"You'd do well to keep your nose out of my business; just a _precaution_."

Tony rubbed at his throat where the collar had cut in. "Duly noted." He watched Rogers for a second longer, weighing options. "And you'd do well to keep a closer eye on the cops in your territory--I hear there's about to be an upset, and not one that works in either of our favors." The admission left him feeling fluttery and faintly terrified. Calculated risks were still risks, even if it was a risk he'd taken before.

Of course, back then he'd simply been giving advice to a wanna-be gangster; this time he was handing over potentially compromising information to a frankly terrifying mafia boss. God, he hoped he wasn't wrong.

Rogers' cold gaze fixated back on him, surprise writ large across his features. "What do you mean?" A beat, then: "Why are you telling me this?"

Tony debated honesty versus embarrassment, risk versus reward, and found himself wanting on all four. Rogers was a gamble, and Tony still wasn't sure why he felt like taking it. "Well, it's like I said before---

He was interrupted for a second time as the door to the hallway opened abruptly, letting in far more light than he was comfortable with, though it was dimmed somewhat by the figure on the threshold. Rogers snapped his attention to the side, clearly unsettled.

"If you're quite done back here, Tony, we've more important places to be." Greg's precisely disinterested drawl killed Tony's high a great deal faster than terror did, and Tony was _most_ unappreciative.

"If I must," Tony sighed, flattening down the front of his shirt. It was a hopeless endeavor.

"Yes, you must--I need you sober tomorrow." 

"You need me sober far too often, I think."

"What I need is a brother who knows how to control his...vices." Greg seemed to just then notice Rogers lurking in the shadows nearby, and stared at him, displeased and suspicious. He glanced back at Tony, so carefully blank that it made the hair on the back of Tony's neck rise.

"I thought you were talking to Stane."

"I was. I did."

"Hmm." Greg's mouth tightened. "Captain."

Rogers inclined his head silently.

Tony observed the sudden ratcheting up of tension with some amount of fascination. Rogers was as solid and impassive as ever, but Tony could swear there was the faintest hint of real anger in the hard lines around his brother's eyes. Greg was more suspicious by nature, which he insisted was his duty as the elder brother, but for once in his life, Tony couldn't quite tell _why_. His gut tightened, cold and uneasy. Had they even ever met before?

"Come, Tony, we're leaving." Greg held one hand partway up and beckoned with two fingers, as though Tony was a child in need of reminding.

Tony sneered at him in return, which earned only another unimpressed look, but pushed off of the wall. It wasn't as though Greg was wrong--he was just being an ass, which was an enormous not-surprise. Still, Greg's suspicion of Rogers seemed...off, and Tony wasn't sure how comfortable he was with Greg finding out what they'd discussed, innocuous as it was.

As he passed by Rogers, Tony ran an open palm across his abdomen, thumb dragging against the fine leather of Rogers' belt. Tony swore he felt Rogers jump, but it was probably just his imagination. He looked up at Rogers through his lashes, a move that couldn't be misinterpreted--by Rogers or Greg--and purred, "It was a pleasure seeing you again, Captain."

That time, Rogers did startle, and Tony could feel those raptor's eyes boring into his back, watching him all the way down the hallway and out the door.

\--

Two months later, the Chief of Police at the 61st Precinct died under suspicious circumstances. 

Tony wasn't surprised by the event itself, but it had come earlier and considerably more violently than he'd expected. 'Suspicious' was one way of describing how he'd died--'mangled' or 'eviscerated' were perhaps more accurate. 

Still, the funeral wasn't to be missed, not with the amount of money and social currency the Stark brothers had invested in the NYPD. The fact that the precinct was very firmly in Brooklyn--Rogers' territory--was a coincidence that Tony was happy to take advantage of.

The funeral itself was a hushed affair, voices kept low in deference to the still-open investigation into the former Chief's death. The quiet was occasionally punctuated by the muffled sobs of his widow and children, who Tony was frankly surprised to see in out public. After what they'd come home to, he'd fully expected all of them to be in the psych ward.

Greg stood next to him, tall and relaxed, as the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the ground. He wore an (utterly gauche, honestly) all-white suit, and stuck out like a sore thumb in a sea of black. They'd argued about it on the way over, jokingly, but Tony had to admit that Greg was probably more comfortable than anyone else there. All-black and muggy July weather did not mix well. It was a pity that men's formal wear had so few seasonal variations. 

The priest began to pray, and most of the gathered crowd lowered their heads respectfully, Stark brothers not included. Tony listened to the dirt hitting the coffin lid with something like nausea in his gut; Greg watched the rest of the funeral-goers with impunity, his face stony and closed. It was far too similar to their parents' funeral, and that thought alone was enough to make Tony crave a drink or twelve.

Greg abruptly _tsk_ 'd under his breath, pitched low enough that only Tony could hear him. "I admit, I didn't expect him to show up."

Tony pulled his attention away from the rapidly-filling grave (too big and too empty and too quiet, just like mother's, why wouldn't anyone _say_ anything?) and tried to find what Greg was glaring at. It wasn't a difficult task--Rogers' fair hair and massive frame served to make him stand out of any crowd, and the neck tattoos weren't very subtle either. His head was bowed over his clasped hands. Tony wasn't sure if he was genuine or just a poor actor.

"Maybe he wanted to pay his respects." Whatever else he was, Rogers seemed to have a bizarre and vaguely condescending sense of morality. It wouldn't surprise Tony if he was genuinely sorry to hear that the Chief of Police most likely to cause him problems was dead.

Greg snorted, almost involuntarily, which drew a few sharp looks from nearby guests. "Maybe he wanted to see his handiwork in person."

"I don't think this was his work. He's usually much....cleaner."

"He's a thug," Greg sneered. "I want him out of this city, but I'll settle for keeping him on a tight leash."

Tony looked over the gathered mass, easily picking out a dark, bald head near the friends and family section. "It's too early, though; nothing's in place. Fury wasn't even supposed to come into the picture until next year at the earliest."

"And Rogers wasn't supposed to be here at all." Greg glanced over at him, his green eyes warm and calculating all at once. "Plans change, Tony."


End file.
